BLOOMS OF THE BERRY.



                  A LAMENT.

                       I.

W    HITE moons may come, white moons may go,
     She sleeps where wildwood blossoms blow,
     Nor knowF she of the rosy June,
     Star-silver flowers o'er her strewn,
     The pearly paleness of the moon,-
         Alas! how should she know!

                       II.

     The downs moth at evening comes
     To suck thin honey from wet blooms;
     Long, lazy clouds that swimming high
     Brood white about the western sky,
     Grow red us molten iron and lie
        Above the fragrant glooms.

                      III.

    Rare odor,, of the weed and fern,
    Dry whisp rings of dim leaves that turn,
    A sound o;' hidden waters lone
    Frothed bubbling down the streaming stone,
    And now z wood-dove's plaintive moan
        Drift from the bushy burne.



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