And then I saw you not, and knew Dead leaves were whirling down the mist, And something lost was crying through An evening of amethyst.
A burst of sudden wings at dawn, Faint voices in a dreamy noon, Evenings of mist and murmurings, And nights with rainbows of the moon.
And through these things a wood-way dim, And waters dim, and slow sheep seen On uphill paths that wind away Through summer sounds and harvest green.
This is a song a robin sang This morning on a broken tree, It was about the little fields That call across the world to me.
Powdered and perfumed the full bee Winged heavily across the clover, And where the hills were dim with dew, Purple and blue the west leaned over.
A willow spray dipped in the stream, Moving a gleam of silver ringing, And by a finny creek a maid Filled all the shade with softest singing.
Listening, my heart and soul at strife, On the edge of life I seemed to hover, For I knew my love had come at last, That my joy was past and my gladness over.
I tiptoed gently tip and stooped Above her looped and shining tresses, And asked her of her kin and name, And why she came from fairy places.
She told me of a sunny coast Beyond the most adventurous sailor, Where she had spent a thousand years Out of the fears that now assail her.
And there, she told me, honey drops Out of the tops of ash and willow, And in the mellow shadow Sleep Doth sweetly keep her poppy pillow.
Nor Autumn with her brown line marks The time of larks, the length of roses, But song-time there is over never Nor flower-time ever, ever closes.
And wildly through uncurling ferns Fast water turns down valleys singing, Filling with scented winds the dales, Setting the bells of sleep a-ringing.
And when the thin moon lowly sinks, Through cloudy chinks a silver glory Lingers upon the left of night Till dawn delights the meadows hoary.
And by the lakes the skies are white, (Oh, the delight!) when swans are coming, Among the flowers sweet joy-bells peal, And quick bees wheel in drowsy humming.
The squirrel leaves her dusty house And in the boughs makes fearless gambol, And, falling down in fire-drops, red, The fruit is shed from every bramble.
Then, gathered all about the trees Glad galaxies of youth are dancing, Treading the perfume of the flowers, Filling the hours with mazy glancing.