I love the stony pasture That no one else will have, The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.
In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.
Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.
It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.
Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.
Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.
There in the earthly springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.
There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.
And then October passes In gorgeous livery, In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.
And when the winds of winter Their bugles blast again, I watch the battalions come To pitch their tents therein.
Under the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech.
You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest.
And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid,
And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings.
Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phœbe, with your lack of noise, What eloquence you teach!
The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way-- And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flesh of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined,-- The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring.