Barter

There is a long thin line of fading gold

In the far West, and the transfigured leaves

On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves

Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold

The pungent air, and,‘ neath the yellow haze,

Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.

There is a soft enchantment in the air,

A mystery the Summer knows not, nor

The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore

Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there

I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field

And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.

A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod

Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray

Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray

The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod,

Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flash

Of sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.

She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smile

Of frank surrender. As a witching maid

In gorgeous garments cunningly arrayed

Might smile and draw them closer, hers the guile

To let men hope, pray, labor in love's stress

Ere they her hidden beauties may possess.

Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise,

Down with the sweet linnæa and the moss,

In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines toss

In Winter's harrying storms her secret lies.

Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting pain

Ere we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.

‘ Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turn

Great Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes grow

Dim in the dusk of years, and heads bend low

Weary at last, the truth we strove to learn

Is ours forever. But its joy of sight

Is dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.

Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning hand

Doles out our happiness; we snatch at wealth

And pay with anxious care and fading health.

We call for Love, and dream that we shall stand

On ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way,

The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.

Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchange

Of gifts and griefs, and so I render thee

Vows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringly

What love demands, nor ever deem it strange.

And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds sting

I make no murmur, but await the Spring.