'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The bank is steep to ride!'—
The bank is steep for a strong man's leap,
And her eyes are staring wide.
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The Run is swift to ride!'—
The Run is swift with mountain drift,
And she sways from side to side.
Is it a wash of the yellow moss,
Or drift of the autumn's gold,
The mountain torrent foams across
For the dead pine's roots to hold?
Is it the bark of the sycamore,
Or peel of the white birch-tree,
The mountaineer on the other shore
Hath followed and still can see?
No mountain moss or leaves, dear heart!
No bark of birchen gray!—
Young hair of gold and a face death-cold
The wild stream sweeps away.
AUGUST
I
Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace,
Benign, of calm maturity, she stands
Among her meadows and her orchard-lands,
And on her mellowing gardens and her trees,
Out of the ripe abundance of her hands
Bestows increase
And fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease,
Blue-eyed and blonde she goes
Upon her bosom Summer's richest rose.
II
And he who follows where her footsteps lead,
By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream,
Shall glimpse the glory of her visible dream,
In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed:
She, in whose path the very shadows gleam;
Whose humblest weed
Seems lovelier than June's loveliest flower, indeed,
And sweeter to the smell
Than April's self within a rainy dell.