At morn, a pathway deep with dew, And birds that vary time and tune; At eve, a sunset avenue, And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, Is all I ask for me and you.
Dear heart, with wants so small and few, And faith, that’s better far than gold, A lowly friend; a child or two, To care for us when we are old, Is all I ask for me and you.
Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blows A tourney-trumpet on the listed hill; Past is the splendor of the royal rose And duchess daffodil.
Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden’s space, Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold, A ragged beggar with a lovely face, Reigns the sad marigold.
And I, who sought June’s butterfly for days, Now find it--like a coreopsis bloom-- Amber and seal, rain-murdered ’neath the blaze Of this sunflower’s plume.
Here drones the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wings Dare the blue gulfs of heaven: the last song The red-bird flings me as adieu, still rings Upon that pear-tree’s prong.
No angry sunset brims with rubier red The bowl of heaven than the days, indeed, Pour in the blossoms of this salvia-bed Where each leaf seems to bleed.
And where the wood-gnats dance, a little mist, Above the efforts of the weedy stream, The girl, October, tired of the tryst, Dreams a diviner dream.
One foot just dipping the caressing wave, One knee at languid angle; locks that drown Hands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave, Watching the leaves drift down.
What is it now that I shall seek Where woods dip downward, in the hills?-- A mossy nook, a ferny creek, And May among the daffodils.
Or in the valley’s vistaed glow, Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines, Shall I behold her coming slow, Sweet May, among the columbines?
With red-bud cheeks and bluet eyes, Big eyes, the homes of happiness, To meet me with the old surprise, Her hoiden hair all bonnetless.
Who waits for me, where, note for note, The birds make glad the forest trees? A dogwood blossom at her throat, My May among th’ anemones.
As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms, And dewdrops drink the moon’s bright beams, My soul shall kiss her lips’ perfumes, And drain the magic of her dreams.
Under rocks whereon the rose Like a strip of morning glows; Where the azure-throated newt Drowses on the twisted root; And the brown bees, humming homeward, Stop to suck the honeydew; Fern and leaf-hid gleaming gloamward, Drips the wildwood spring I knew, Drips the spring my boyhood knew.