We sat and watched the hearth-fire blaze,
My friend and I together;
The crickets sang of harvest-days,
The wood of summer weather.

It told of shade, of storm and sun,
Its native oakland story;
To him it only spake of one
Who turned all gloom to glory.

The cricket carolled still of noon,
Bright with the sun’s caresses
To him it called a form like June,
Aflush with golden tresses.

Within the flame a spirit seemed
To soar and sway and falter,
While in his heart a presence beamed
More steadfast on its altar.

The embers, in their ashen bed,
Looked out with transient flashes;
He only saw sweet eyes that shed
Their rays through twilight lashes.

O’er stubbled fields the autumn wailed,
In low and mournful closes;
He only heard a song that sailed
Over charmed realms of roses.

His eyes, once lit with battle-ire,
Aflame with warrior science,
Forgot their fierce, controlling fire,
Their flashes of defiance;

But with dreamy love-light blest,
More luminous grew and tender,
As if the image in his breast
Had lit them with its splendor.

The voice that once his ardor proved,
Along the roaring column,
Now to mysterious measures moved
Subdued, serenely solemn.

He named her, —and the soft words came
In musical completeness,
As if the breathing of that name
Had touched his lips with sweetness.