HAVE you seen the Evening Primrose open

In, the Dusk,

When the surface din of day is newly broken

And its husk

Is trolled across the sky by homing rook ?

And silence-fall is mingled with the dewfall

And many bats

Are summoning the shadows with their cue-call

From the vats

Where the dawnghosts hang for hours on moon's-ort hook.

A hedgepig threads the path along the streamway

At gambol-gait;

Gnats that hover in the after sunset gleam-play

Mate, remate

Where water-buttercups make white the brook.

One, launched ungainly on dorbeetle fare,

Heavily flies ;

And one, with pinions furled, tweet-tweets an air

In dream-replies—

A bird wing weary, from her dozy nook.

Around the Evening Primrose by the wonstead

The moths now flit;

For it summons with pale fragrance from its gloamstead :

Dusk's candle lit

Spires silence ward. ... " The Primrose, look."