Earth hath no such fairy daughter
  Of all her witchcraft shapes of water. 
  When all the land with summer burns,
  And brazen noon rides hot and high,
  And tongues are parched and grasses dry,
  Still are you green and hushed with ferns,
  And cool as some old sanctuary;
  Still are you brimming o’er with dew
  And stars that dipped their feet in you.

  And I believe when none is by,
  Only the young moon in the sky—­
  The Greeks of old were right about you—­
  A naiad, like a marble flower,
  Lifts up her lovely shape from out you,
  Swaying like a silver shower.

  So in old years dead and gone
  Brimmed the spring on Helicon,
  Just a little spring like you—­
  Ferns and moss and stars and dew—­
  Nigh the sacred Muses’ dwelling,
  Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling.

  Noon

  Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass,
    Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse;
  The little stream, too indolent to pass,
    Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs,
    That build amid the glare a shadowy house,
  And with a Paradisal freshness brims
    Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade;
  The antic water-fly above it skims,
    And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade,
    Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.

  The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies,
    Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves,
  Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies,
    Languid with noon, forget their painted loves,
    Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves. 
  Only at times a little breeze will stir,
    And send a ripple o’er the sleeping stream,
  Or run its fingers through the willows’ hair,
    And sway the rushes momently agleam—­
    Then all fall back again into a dream.

  A rainy day

  The beauty of this rainy day,
  All silver-green and dripping gray,
  Has stolen quite my heart away
  From all the tasks I meant to do,
  Made me forget the resolute blue
  And energetic gold of things . . . 
  So soft a song the rain-bird sings.

  Yet am I glad to miss awhile
  The sun’s huge domineering smile,
  The busy spaces mile on mile,
  Shut in behind this shimmering screen
  Of falling pearls and phantom green;
  As in a cloister walled with rain,
  Safe from intrusions, voices vain,
  And hurry of invading feet,
  Inviolate in my retreat: 
  Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire—­
  So runs my rainy-day desire.

  Or I old letters may con o’er,
  And dream on faces seen no more,
  The buried treasure of the years,
  Too visionary now for tears;
  Open old cupboards and explore
  Sometimes, for an old sweetheart’s sake,
  A delicate romantic ache,
  Sometimes a swifter pang of pain
  To read old tenderness again,
  As though the ink were scarce yet dry,
  And She still She and I still I.
  What if I were to write as though
  Her letter came an hour ago! 
  An hour ago!—­This post-mark says . . . 
  But out upon these rainy days! 
  Come tie the packet up again,
  The sun is back—­enough of rain.