And what a day!—remember
The morns of a Summer and Spring,
That bound two lives together?
Each morn a wedding ring
Of dew and dreams and sparkle,
Of flowers and birds a-wing?
Broad morns when I strolled the garden
Awaiting one the rose
Expected, fresh in its blushes—
The Giant of Battle that grows
A head of radiance and fragrance,
The champion of the close.
Not in vain did I wait, departed
Summer, this morning mocks;
'Mid the powdery crystal and crimson
Of your hollow hollyhocks;
Your fairy-bells and poppies,
And the bee that in them rocks.
Cool-clad 'mid the pendulous purple
Of the morning-glory vine,
By the giant pearls pellucid
Of the peonies a-line,
The snapdragons' and the pansies'
Deep-colored jewel mine.
Shall I ever see my mealy,
Drunk dusty-millers gay;
My lady-slippers bashful
Of butterfly and ray;
My gillyflowers as spicy
Each as a day of May?
Oh, dear when I think of the handfuls
Of little gold coin a-mass,
My bachelor's-buttons scatter
Over the garden grass;
Of the marigold that boasts its
One bit of burning brass;
More bitter I feel the winter
Tighten to spirit and heart;
And dream of the days remembered
As lost—of the past a part;
Of the ways we went, all blotted,
Tear-blotted on love's chart.
And I see the mill and the diamonds
Of foam tossed from its wheel;
Red lilies tumbled together,
The madcap wind at heel;
And the timid veronicas' blossoms—
Those prayers the woods conceal.
The wild-cat gray of the meadows
That the ox-eyed daisies dot,
Fawn-eyed and a leopard-yellow,
That tangle a tawny spot—
As if some panther tired
Lay dozing tame and hot.
Ah! back again with the present,
With winds that pinch and twist
Each leaf in their peevish passion,
And whirl wherever they list;
With the morning hoary and nipping,
Whose mausolean mist