The Aster

The azure spaces draped in gold Of afternoon, and the misty fold Of sunset as day went down; And the thrush’s call, while the beauty rolled Of summer still in a crown.

Yet more, through gardens, wet with dew, Where asters gleamed in the dusk’s faint hue, We wandered slow with joy, Till the moon came out with a gleaming view, And the night stirred with its coy.

Above, the stars in silence shone, With a light that was all their own; And still, in the garden’s breath, The dreams of blossoms softly grown, And the night deepened, still as death.

• Wilfrid Wilson Gibson