9. HARVESTS OF ROSES AND GRAPES.
My day lit up the crops of stainless corn
Where sounded many a timid woman's tread
And myriad gladsome strophes dew-bespread. . .
When every breast with early yearning thrilled,
A rose-plot each within my garden tilled
And waited, till in dreams it should be born.
My friends tilled likewise; full a hundred sprays
And trees and vines they planted. At the end
Of years and autumn-tides, when in a blend
The yellow leafage gushes blood and gold.
When ripens all, as from a bronzen mould,
When in the sunlight all is glow and blaze,
Behold, the rose, the grape, late-mellowed. All
To me in love and friendship passing fair.
Their hour, in sooth. I shall not tarry, ere
I cull them in, else, bending to my feet
'Neath their own weight, in grasses dewy-sweet,
Fragrant in their departing, they will fall. . .
“The Harvests” (1913).
