AFTER THE GLEAMING
Come to the park, called dead, and there behold!
Of smiling, distant shores the splendent beaming,
The lucid clouds' pure azure, unforetold,
Illume the ponds and all the footpaths gleaming.
There take the yellow deep, the tender gray
Of birches and of beech. The mild winds play,
Not all the late-born roses died so soon,
O pluck and kiss them, weave the bright festoon.
These last surviving asters ne'er forget!
Round vine-shoots wild the purple's radiant presence,.
And what remained of life and viridescence,
Entwine them in the face by fall beset.
Amid the splendor to and fro we wander
Of beech-lined paths to where the gate is looming,
And through the bars we see in meadows yonder
The almond-tree, a second time in blooming.
We seek the benches in unshadowed places
Where ne’er we were dismayed by strangers' voices,
In dreams mine arm with thine now interlaces,
Our hearts the long, mild radiance rejoices.
Thankful we feel how with a gentle rustling
Bright drops upon us fall from leafy crowns,
We hark and look when with recurrent bustling
The ripened fruit against the hard soil pounds.
Along th' unswerving hedge we stand alone,
Children is straggling lines a nun is bringing,
And songs of heavenly bliss we hear them singing
With earthly voices, clear and firm of tone.
We, basking in the sun as night advances,
Were frightened by your words and you aver:
"Happy so long, but longer not, we were
As o'er this hedge we could not cast our glances."
