One Summer

THE tale of the summer is ended,The stage-coach has passed the old mill,The roll of the wheels echoes softly,Yet I by the gate linger still.

A farmer-lad, awkward and silent,I seem only this—nothing more—Since a beautiful woman went yonder,Away by the blue mountain-door.

She seemed not to scorn my endeavorTo ward from her roughness and harm;The tremulous, soft little fingersHave tightened in trust on my arm.

The lilies I gathered through perilShe wore on her brow and her breast;She, tiptoeing, leaned on my shoulderTo peer in the robin s new nest.

Whilst I, in my sober-hued fustian,Wrapped soft foolish fancies and fears,Or dreamed of a love-lighted cottageTo crown the devotion of years.

"A friend evermore," so it ended;I count for "one more" on your listOf the falcons that pull at the tetherEnwrapping your slender white wrist.

Ah, more than yourself goeth yonder—Than the dream of a sweet summer lost—Than the heart of a farmer-lad overThe edge of that summer-time tossed.

You take the boy s trust in fair woman(Save his mother, God bless her for aye!);

You drag the knight's plume in the highway,And leave it all tarnished to lie.

O beautiful, happy, lost summer!How bitter is growing thy wine,Distilled from the roses and liliesThat bury this lost love of mine!