The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago,
Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow.
Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then!
Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;
But that one summer holds the essence of all my life,
The forty years before were records of toil and strife,
And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er,
And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.
Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town,
Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down
To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day,
And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;
Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years--
The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears--
I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes,
With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.
Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide!
But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side,
And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek!
"Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"
And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold
Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled
Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet,
Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."
And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips,
And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips,
"'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied,
With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."
The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close,
And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose.
I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see?
And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."
Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past!
Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast!
Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves,
When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.
I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet,
Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street,
I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair,
With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.
Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June,
The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon.
The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime,
I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.