Yet thou hast not kept the tryst. Other guests our lips have kissed: Other guests have tarried long, Wooed by sunshine and by song; For the year was bright with May, All the birds kept holiday, All the skies were clear and blue, When this house of ours was new.
Youth came in with us to dwell, Crowned with rose and asphodel, Lingered long, and even yet Cannot quite his haunts forget. Love hath sat beside our board, Brought us treasures from his hoard, Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine, Vintage of the hills divine.
Down our garden path has strayed Young Romance, in light arrayed; Joy hath flung her garlands wide; Faith sung low at eventide; Care hath flitted in and out; Sorrow strewn her weeds about; Hope held up her torch on high When clouds darkened all the sky.
Pain, with pallid lips and thin, Oft hath slept our house within; Life hath called us, loud and long, With a voice as trumpet strong. Sometimes we have thought, O Guest, Thou wert coming with the rest, Watched to see thy shadow fall On the inner chamber wall.
For we know that, soon or late, Thou wilt enter at the gate, Cross the threshold, pass the door, Glide at will from floor to floor. When thou comest, by this sign We shall know thee, Guest divine: Though alone thy coming be, Someone must go forth with thee!
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN
An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, No doubt it is. I was thinking here Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, How fair was the scene I looked upon; Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, How it might look to other eyes.
’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed Cut here and there in the turf; instead, The broad straight paths run east and west, Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, And north and south with an equal state, From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.
And, where they cross on the middle line, Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbine Clamber and climb at their own sweet will Over the latticed arbor still; Though since they were planted years have flown, And many a time have the roses blown.
To the right the hill runs down to the river, Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver, And under the shade of the hemlock-trees The low ferns nod to the passing breeze; There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep With a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.