The scent of the earth is moist and good br In the dewy shade br Of the tall, dark poplars whose slender tops br Against the sunset bloom are laid, br And a robin is whistling in the copse br By the dim spruce wood. br br The west wind blowing o'er branch and flower br Out of the wold, br Steals through the honeysuckle bower br And bears away on its airy wings br Odors that breath of paradise; br Dim are the poppies' splendid dyes, br But many a pallid primrose swings br Its lamp of gold. br br A white moth flits from tree to tree br Like a wandering soul; br Deep in the lily a muffled boom br Tells of a honey-drunken bee br Wildered with sweets in that ivory bowl; br Many a subtle melody, br Many a rare sound all unknown br To the lusty daylight's fuller tone br Threads with its magic this hush and gloom. br br Many a dear thought deep in the heart, br Many a memory, dulcet and fine, br Wakes as we walk in the garden to-night, br In this soft kissing of dark and light, br When the world has drawn itself apart br From our spirit's shrine.