Their magic has its way with me until
I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill
As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again,
To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.
O sudden urging sweetness in the air,
Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,
Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith,
And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.
Grace Hazard Conkling
A SELLER OF HERBS
Black, comely, of abiding cheer,
Three times a week she fares,
Townward from gabled Windermere,
To sell her dainty wares.
Green balms she brings from winding lanes,
And some in handfuls tall,
Of the old days of Annes and Janes,
Grown by a kitchen wall.
Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs,
With spears of violet;
And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs
In a field's hollow set.