V. _A Song In August._

O gold is the West and gold the river-waters Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe, Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle, The far-off hills cry a golden word of you.

I can almost see you! Where its own shadow Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow. There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle Glad of you beside them--the fairest thing they know.

Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you, Grey sheep between,--unfrightened as you pass; Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass.

Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches: Through the thick alders you will break your way: Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,-- For us the long shadows and the end of day.

Whither shall we go? See, over to the westward, An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me; Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands; West is it, or East, O Love that you would be?

West now, or East? For, underneath the moonrise, Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall, And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters, Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall.

And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood, A lone crane go over to its inland nest: Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands And sail overhead to the marshes of the west.

Now a little wind rises up for our returning; Silver grows the East as the West grows grey; Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows, The firs on the hillside--naught so dark as they.

Yet we have known the light!--Was ever such an August? Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,-- The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream.