This false-foxglove, so golden now With yellow blooms, like bangles, Was bloomless then. But yonder bough,-- The sumac’s plume entangles,-- Was like an Indian’s painted face; And, like a squaw, attended That bush, in vague vermilion grace, With beads of berries splendid.
And here we turned to mount that hill, Down which the wild brook tumbles; And, like to-day, that day was still, And mild winds swayed the umbels Of these wild-carrots, lawny gray: And there, deep-dappled o’er us, An orchard stretched; and in our way Dropped ripened fruit before us.
With muffled thud the pippin fell, And at our feet rolled dusty; A hornet clinging to its bell, The pear lay bruised and rusty: The smell of pulpy peach and plum, From which the juice oozed yellow,-- Around which bees made sleepy hum,-- Made warm the air and mellow.
And then we came where, many-hued, The wet wild morning-glory Hung its balloons in shadows dewed For dawning’s offertory: With bush and bramble, far away, Beneath us stretched the valley, Cleft of one creek, as clear as day, That rippled musically.
The brown, the bronze, the green, the red Of weed and brier ran riot To walls of woods, whose pathways led To nooks of whispering quiet: Long waves of feathering goldenrod Ran through the gray in patches, As in a cloud the gold of God Burns, that the sunset catches.
And there, above the blue hills rolled, Like some far conflagration, The sunset, flaming marigold, We watched in exultation: Then, turning homeward, she and I Went in love’s sweet derangement-- How different now seem earth and sky, Since this undreamed estrangement.
_He enters the woods. He sits down despondently_:
Here where the day is dimmest, And silence company, Some might find sympathy For loss, or grief the grimmest, In each great-hearted tree-- Here where the day is dimmest-- But, ah, there ’s none for me!
In leaves might find communion, Returning sigh for sigh, For love the heavens deny; The love that yearns for union, Yet parts and knows not why.-- In leaves might find communion-- But, ah, not I, not I!
My eyes with tears are aching.-- Why has she written me? And will no longer see?-- My heart with grief is breaking, With grief that this should be.-- My eyes with tears are aching-- Why has she written me?