Bland was that October day, Calm and balmy as the spring, When we went a forest-way, 'Neath paternal beeches gray, To a valleyed opening: Where the purple aster flowered, And, like torches shadow-held, Red the fiery sumach towered; And, where gum-trees sentineled Vistas, robed in gold and garnet, Ripe the th.o.r.n.y chestnut sh.e.l.led Its brown plumpness. Bee and hornet Droned around us; quick the cricket, Tireless in the wood-rose thicket, Tremoloed; and, to the wind All its moon-spun silver casting, Swung the milk-weed pod unthinned; And, its clean flame on the sod By the fading golden-rod, Burned the white life-everlasting.

It was not so much the time, Nor the place, nor way we went, That made all our moods to rhyme, Nor the season's sentiment, As it was the innocent Carefree childhood of our hearts, Reading each expression of Death and care as life and love: That impression joy imparts Unto others and retorts On itself, which then made glad All the sorrow of decay, As the memory of that day Makes this day of spring, now, sad.

XIV.

The balsam-breathed petunias Hang riven of the rain; And where the tiger-lily was Now droops a tawny stain; While in the twilight's purple pause Earth dreams of Heaven again.

When one shall sit and sigh, And one lie all alone Beneath the unseen sky-- Whose love shall then deny?

Whose love atone?

With ragged petals round its pod The rain-wrecked poppy dies; And where the hectic rose did nod A crumbled crimson lies; While distant as the dreams of G.o.d The stars slip in the skies.

When one shall lie asleep, And one be dead and gone-- Within the unknown deep, Shall we the trysts then keep That now are done?

XV.

Holding both your hands in mine, Often have we sat together, While, outside, the boisterous weather Hung the wild wind on the pine Like a black marauder, and With a sudden warning hand At the cas.e.m.e.nt rapped. The night Read no sentiment of light, Starbeam-syllabled, within Her romance of death and sin, Shadow-chaptered tragicly.-- Looking in your eyes, ah me!

Though I heard, I did not heed What the night read unto us, Threatening and ominous: For love helped my heart to read Forward through unopened pages To a coming day, that held More for us than all the ages Past, that it epitomized In its sentence; where we spelled What our present realized Only--all the love that was Past and yet to be for us.

XVI.

'Though in the garden, gray with dew, All life lies withering, And there's no more to say or do, No more to sigh or sing, Yet go we back the ways we knew, When buds were opening.

Perhaps we shall not search in vain Within its wreck and gloom; 'Mid roses ruined of the rain There still may live one bloom; One flower, whose heart may still retain The long-lost soul-perfume.

And then, perhaps, will come to us The dreams we dreamed before; And song, who spoke so beauteous, Will speak to us once more; And love, with eyes all amorous, Will ope again his door.

So 'though the garden's gray with dew, And flowers are withering, And there's no more to say or do, No more to sigh or sing, Yet go we back the ways we knew When buds were opening.

XVII.

Looking on the desolate street, Where the March snow drifts and drives, Trodden black of hurrying feet, Where the athlete storm-wind strives With each tree and dangling light,-- Centers, sphered with glittering white,-- Hissing in the dancing snow ...

Backward in my soul I go To that tempest-haunted night Of two autumns past, when we, Hastening homeward, were o'ertaken Of the storm; and 'neath a tree, With its wild leaves whisper-shaken, Sheltered us in that forsaken, Sad and ancient cemetery,-- Where folk came no more to bury.-- Haggard grave-stones, mossed and crumbled, Tottered 'round us, or o'ertumbled In their sunken graves; and some, Urned and obelisked above Iron-fenced in tombs, stood dumb Records of forgotten love.

And again I see the west Yawning inward to its core Of electric-spasmed ore, Swiftly, without pause or rest.

And a great wind sweeps the dust Up abandoned sidewalks; and, In the rotting trees, the gust Shouts again--a voice that would Make its gaunt self understood Moaning over death's lean land.

And we sat there, hand in hand; On the granite; where we read, By the leaping skies o'erhead, Something of one young and dead.

Yet the words begot no fear In our souls: you leaned your cheek Smiling on mine: very near Were our lips: we did not speak.

XVIII.

And suddenly alone I stood With scared eyes gazing through the wood.

For some still sign of ill or good, To lead me from the solitude.

The day was at its twilighting; One cloud o'erhead spread a vast wing Of rosy thunder; vanishing Above the far hills' mystic ring.

Some stars shone timidly o'erhead; And toward the west's cadaverous red-- Like some wild dream that haunts the dead In limbo--the lean moon was led.

Upon the sad, debatable Vague lands of twilight slowly fell A silence that I knew too well, A sorrow that I can not tell.

What way to take, what path to go, Whether into the east's gray glow, Or where the west burnt red and low-- What road to choose, I did not know.

So, hesitating, there I stood Lost in my soul's uncertain wood: One sign I craved of ill or good, To lead me from its solitude.

XIX.

It was autumn: and a night, Full of whispers and of mist, With a gray moon, wanly whist, Hanging like a phantom light O'er the hills. We stood among Windy fields of weed and flower, Where the withered seed pod hung, And the chill leaf-crickets sung.

Melancholy was the hour With the mystery and loneness Of the year, that seemed to look On its own departed face; As our love then, in its oneness, All its dead past did retrace, And from that sad moment took Presage of approaching parting.-- Sorrowful the hour and dark: Low among the trees, now starting, Now concealed, a star's pale spark-- Like a fen-fire--winked and lured On to shuddering shadows; where All was doubtful, una.s.sured, Immaterial; and the bare Facts of unideal day Changed to substance such as dreams.

And meseemed then, far away-- Farther than remotest gleams Of the stars--lost, separated, And estranged, and out of reach, Grew our lives away from each, Loving lives, that long had waited.

XX.

There is no gladness in the day Now you're away; Dull is the morn, the noon is dull, Once beautiful; And when the evening fills the skies With dusky dyes, With tired eyes and tired heart I sit alone, I sigh apart, And wish for you.

Ah! darker now the night comes on Since you are gone; Sad are the stars, the moon is sad, Once wholly glad; And when the stars and moon are set, And earth lies wet, With heart's regret and soul's hard ache, I dream alone, I lie awake, And wish for you.

These who once spake me, speak no more, Now all is o'er; Day hath forgot the language of Its hopes of love; Night, whose sweet lips were burdensome With dreams, is dumb; Far different from what used to be, With silence and despondency They speak to me.

XXI.

So it ends--the path that crept Through a land all slumber-kissed; Where the sickly moonlight slept Like a pale antagonist.

Now the star, that led us onward,-- Rea.s.suring with its light,-- Fails and falters; dipping downward Leaves us wandering in night, With old doubts we once disdained ...

So it ends. The woods attained-- Where our heart's desire builded A fair temple, fire-gilded, With hope's marble shrine within, Where the lineaments of our love Shone, with lilies clad and crowned, 'Neath white columns reared above Sorrow and her sister sin, Columns, rose and ribbon-wound,-- In the forest we have found But a ruin! All around Lie the shattered capitals, And vast fragments of the walls ...

Like a climbing cloud,--that plies, Wind-wrecked, o'er the moon that lies 'Neath its blackness,--taking on Gradual certainties of wan, Soft a.s.saults of easy white, Pale-approaching; till the skies'

Emptiness and hungry night Claim its bulk again, while she Rides in lonely purity: So we found our temple, broken, And a musing moment's s.p.a.ce Love, whose latest word was spoken, Seemed to meet us face to face, Making bright that ruined place With a strange effulgence; then Pa.s.sed, and left all black again.

A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS.

Bee-bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds, Lay rotting: where still sucked and sung The gray bee, boring to its seed's Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.

The orchard path, which led around The garden,--with its heat one twinge Of dinning locusts,--picket-bound, And ragged, brought me where one hinge Held up the gate that sc.r.a.ped the ground.

All seemed the same: the martin-box-- Sun-warped with pigmy balconies-- Still stood with all its twittering flocks, Perched on its pole above the peas And silvery-seeded onion-stocks.

The clove-pink and the rose; the clump Of coppery sunflowers, with the heat Sick to the heart: the garden stump, Red with geranium-pots and sweet With moss and ferns, this side the pump.

I rested, with one hesitant hand Upon the gate. The lonesome day, Droning with insects, made the land One dry stagnation; soaked with hay And scents of weeds, the hot wind fanned.

I breathed the sultry scents, my eyes Parched as my lips. And yet I felt My limbs were ice. As one who flies To some strange woe. How sleepy smelt The hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!