N a September day I cameSeeking that flower of sweetest nameOf all, from which the lavish JuneWith boundless fragrance fills the noon,In woods where her best blossoms hide."O sweet Twin-Flower! I longing cried,Hopeless but eager, "is there stillOne tiny pink bell left? And willThy guardian fairy condescendTo guide my feet, that I may bend,In reverent and fond delight,Once more at the transcendent sight?"The spicy woods were still and cool;In many a little mossy poolBright leaves were floating round and round;The partridge mother's watchful sound,The sighs of dying leaves that fell,Were all that broke the silent spell.In mats and tangles everywhere,The Twin-Flower vines lay, green and fair,With subtle beauty all their own,Wreathing each hillock and each stone,Stretching in slender coiling shoot,Far out of sight of parent root,Making white silken fibres fastTo all the mosses as they passed;But trembling, empty, withered, bare,Stood all the thread-like flower-stems there."Too late," I said, and rambled on,Sadder because the flowers were gone,Yet glad, and laden with green vinesOf everything that climbs and twines;With glossy ferns, and snowy seedsStrung thick on scarlet stems, like beads,And Tiarellas packed betweenIn mottled, scalloped disks of green,And purple Asters fit for hemOf High-Priest's robes, and, shading themLike sunlit tree-tops waving broad,Great branching stalks of Golden-Rod.So, glad and laden, through the woodI went, till on its edge I stood,When at my very feet I saw,With sudden joy, half joy, half awe,Low nestled in a dead log's cleftOne pale Twin-Flower, the last one left.So near my hasty step had beenTo trampling it, it quivered inThe air, and like a fairy bellSwung to and fro, with notes that fellNo doubt on hidden ears more fine,And more of kin to it than mine."O dear belated thing!" I cried,And knelt like worshipper besideThe mossy log. The wood, so still,With sudden echo seemed to fill.Repeated on each side I heardIn soft rebuke my thoughtless word,"Belated!""Belated!"No! ah, never yetThe smallest reckoning was setToo slow, too fast, by Nature's hand.Her hours appointed faithful stand.Her million doors wide-open stay.Love cannot lose nor leave his way,Comes not too soon, comes not too late.Twin-Flowers and hearts their lovers wait.
BELATED
"When at my very feet I saw,With sudden joy, half joy, half awe.Low nestled in a dead log's cleft,One pale Twin-Flower, the last one left."
N a September day I cameSeeking that flower of sweetest nameOf all, from which the lavish JuneWith boundless fragrance fills the noon,In woods where her best blossoms hide."O sweet Twin-Flower! I longing cried,Hopeless but eager, "is there stillOne tiny pink bell left? And willThy guardian fairy condescendTo guide my feet, that I may bend,In reverent and fond delight,Once more at the transcendent sight?"The spicy woods were still and cool;In many a little mossy poolBright leaves were floating round and round;The partridge mother's watchful sound,The sighs of dying leaves that fell,Were all that broke the silent spell.In mats and tangles everywhere,The Twin-Flower vines lay, green and fair,With subtle beauty all their own,Wreathing each hillock and each stone, Stretching in slender coiling shoot,Far out of sight of parent root,Making white silken fibres fastTo all the mosses as they passed;But trembling, empty, withered, bare,Stood all the thread-like flower-stems there."Too late," I said, and rambled on,Sadder because the flowers were gone,Yet glad, and laden with green vinesOf everything that climbs and twines;With glossy ferns, and snowy seedsStrung thick on scarlet stems, like beads,And Tiarellas packed betweenIn mottled, scalloped disks of green,And purple Asters fit for hemOf High-Priest's robes, and, shading themLike sunlit tree-tops waving broad,Great branching stalks of Golden-Rod.So, glad and laden, through the woodI went, till on its edge I stood,When at my very feet I saw,With sudden joy, half joy, half awe,Low nestled in a dead log's cleftOne pale Twin-Flower, the last one left.So near my hasty step had beenTo trampling it, it quivered inThe air, and like a fairy bellSwung to and fro, with notes that fellNo doubt on hidden ears more fine,And more of kin to it than mine."O dear belated thing!" I cried,And knelt like worshipper besideThe mossy log. The wood, so still, With sudden echo seemed to fill.Repeated on each side I heardIn soft rebuke my thoughtless word,"Belated!""Belated!"No! ah, never yetThe smallest reckoning was setToo slow, too fast, by Nature's hand.Her hours appointed faithful stand.Her million doors wide-open stay.Love cannot lose nor leave his way,Comes not too soon, comes not too late.Twin-Flowers and hearts their lovers wait.
