Four springtimes lost: and in the fifth we stand,

here in this quiet hour of glory, still,

while o’er the bridal land

the westering sun dwells in untroubled gold,

a bridegroom proud of his permitted will,

whom grateful rapture suffers not be bold,

but tender now and bland

his amber locks and bended gaze are shed,

brimming, above the couch’d and happy clime:

all is content and ripe delight, full-fed.

And as your fingers brush my hand

so too the winning time

would charm me from regretful reverie

that keeps me somewhat sad, remembering —

not the old woodland days, for thou art near

and hold’st them safely hid

to rise and shine again, when waning skies shall bid —

but later dawns o’ the year, away from thee

liv’d thro’, even here,

and golden embraces of the light-hearted time

when I was sad at heart, remembering

the clear enchantments of our single year,

our woodland prime of love, its violet-budded vow,

receding ever now

farther and farther down the past, a gleam

that turns to softest pearl the luminous haze

drifting between in from the golden days

when I was sad at inmost heart, remembering

thee and the woodland season of bright laughter: —

so in my perverse and most loitering dream

(O fading, fading days!)

each season claims the homage due, long after

its glory has faded to an outcast thing.

 

1898