Poems (Proctor)/A Crimson Clover
A CRIMSON CLOVER.
The maples dropped their withered leaves; Wan, through the mist, the sunset shone;And from the upland, bare of sheaves, The jay's call floated, weird and lone.No robin's song the orchard stirred; No oriole flashed from elm to elm;Nor even the cricket's chirp was heard, Through all that gray November realm.
The dreary sky, the drifting leaves, The jay's far-off, funereal strain,Thrilled me, till, sad as one who grieves Above his dead, I walked the lane.When lo! 'mid ferns that, fresh and fair, Still drooped beneath a sheltering wallAnd gave their fragrance to the air, A crimson clover, sweet and tall!
O heart of joy! O breath of June! O grace I thought forever fled!The rose's scent, the robin's tune, Were wafted from that clover red!The lane grew pink with apple-blooms, A paradise of murmuring bees, And softly, through the maple-glooms, From sunny meadows stole the breeze!
So night fell, but it seemed not dark; The wind blew, but it was not chill;Up rolled the mist till I could mark The Pleiades gleam above the hill."Ah, storm and loss, regret and pain, Ye are but shades that pass!" I said;And, turning homeward through the lane, I plucked and wore the clover red.