| |
| THOU foolish blossom, all untimely blown! | |
| Poor jest of summer, come when woods are chill! | |
| Thy sister buds, in June’s warm redness grown, | |
| That lit with laughter all the upland hill, | |
| |
| Have traceless passed; save on each thornëd stem | 5 |
| Red drops tell how their hearts, in dying, bled. | |
| Theirs was the noon’s rich languor, and for them | |
| The maiden moon her haloed beauty spread; | |
| |
| For them the bobolink his music spilled | |
| In bubbling streams; and well the wild bee knew | 10 |
| Their honeyed hearts. Now bird and bee are stilled; | |
| Now southward swallows hurry down the blue, | |
| |
| Fleeing the murderous Frost that even now | |
| Hath smote the marshes with his bitter breath, | |
| Quenching the flames that danced on vine and bough,— | 15 |
| Think’st thou thy beauty will make truce with Death, | |
| |
| Or hold in summer’s leash his loosened wrath? | |
| See! o’er the shrunk grass trail the blackened vines; | |
| And, hark! the wind, tracking the snow’s fell path, | |
| Snarls like a fretted hound among the pines. | 20 |
| |
| The pallid sunshine fails,—a sudden gloom | |
| Sweeps up the vale, a-thrill with boding fear. | |
| What place for thee? Too late thy pride and bloom! | |
| Born out of time,—poor fool,—what dost thou here? | |
| |
| What do I here when speeds the threatening blight? | 25 |
| June stirred my heart, and so June is for me. | |
| Who feels life’s impulse bourgeon into light | |
| Recks not of seasons, knows not bird nor bee. | |
| |
| I can but bloom,—did the June roses more? | |
| I can but droop,—did they not also die? | 30 |
| The Moment is: the After or Before | |
| Hides all from sight,—canst thou tell more than I? | |
| |
| What matter if to-night come swirling snow | |
| And Death? The Power that makes, that mars, is One. | |
| I know nor care not: when that Power bids blow, | 35 |
| I ope my curlëd petals to the sun. | |
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