Through a valley wild with berry, Packed thick with the iron-weeds, And elder,--washed and very Fragrant,--the fenced path leads; Past oak and wilding cherry To a place of flags and reeds, That the water bredes.

The sun through the sad sky bleaches-- Is that a thrush that calls?

That bird who so beseeches?

And see! on the balsam's b.a.l.l.s, And leaves of the water-beeches-- One blister of wart-like galls-- No raindrop falls.

My shawl instead of a bonnet!...

Though the woods be soaking yet, Through the wet to the rock I'll run it,-- How sweet to meet i' the wet!

Our rock with the vine upon it,-- Each flower a fiery jet-- Where oft we've met!

2

_They meet. He speaks._

How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain!

And where the leaves brim over How fragrant is the lane!

See, how the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again.

Drops from the trumpet flowers Rain on us as we pa.s.s; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or gra.s.s, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like gla.s.s.

_She speaks._

How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold!-- And breezes trailing vagrant Spill all the spice they hold.

The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Crouch on the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old.

Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whippoorwill beseeches; And now an owl's vague moan Strikes faint upon the hearing.-- These say the dusk is nearing.

And, see, the heavens clearing Take on a tender tone.

How feebly chirps the cricket!

How thin the tree-toads cry!

Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly.-- This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briars clearest....

We'll meet to-morrow, dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-bye.

3

_They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks:_

Here at last! And do you know That again you've kept me waiting?

Wondering, antic.i.p.ating, If your "yes" meant "no."

Now you're here we'll have our day....

Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way

Towards the stream; wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green.

Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even, Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft's begun....

How I love you! from the time-- You remember, do you not?-- When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme,

As I told you. And 'twas thus-- "By the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus"--

That I answered you who asked.

But the curious part was this:-- That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked

Tales of old Boccaccio-- Tall Decameronian maids Strolled among Italian glades, Smiling, sweet and slow.

And when you approached,--my book Dropped in wonder,--seemingly To myself I said, "'Tis she!"

And arose to look

In Lauretta's eyes and--true!

Found them yours.--You shook your head, Laughing at me, as you said, "Did I frighten you?"

You had come for cherries; these Dreamily I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease.

Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then. I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin, or of lawn.

And that ap.r.o.n still I see,-- White, with cherry-juice red-stained,-- Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree.

And I asked you--for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Spoke such sweet philosophies,-- If you'd read Rousseau.

You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France?

And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek I, envying it, Said--remembering Rousseau's wit-- "Would my lips were there!"

How you laughed and blushed, I know.-- Here's the stream. The west has narrowed To a streak of gold, deep arrowed.-- There's a skiff. Let's row.

4

_Entering the skiff, she speaks:_

Waters, flowing dark and bright In the sunlight or the moon, Seize my soul with such delight As a visible music might; As some slow, majestic tune Made material to the sight.

Blossoms colored like the skies, Sunset-hued and tame or wild, Fill my soul with such surmise As the mind might realize If our thoughts, all undefiled, Should take form before our eyes.

So to me do these appeal; So they sway me every hour: Letting all their beauty steal On my soul to make it feel, Through a rivulet or flower, More than any words reveal.

5

_He speaks, rowing._

See, sweetheart, how the lilies lay Their lambent leaves about our way; Or, pollen-dusty, nod and float Their moon-like flowers around our boat.-- The middle of the stream we've reached Three strokes from where our boat was beached.

Look up. You scarce can see the sky, Through trees that lean, dark, deep, and high; And coiled with grape and trailing vine Build a vast roof of shade and s.h.i.+ne; A house of leaves, where shadows walk, And whispering winds and waters talk.

There is no path. The saplings choke The trunks they spring from. There an oak Lies rotting; and that sycamore, Which lays its bulk from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e,-- Uprooted by the floods,--perchance, May be the bridge to some romance.