I

The wild brook gleams on the sand and ripples Over the rocks of the riffle; brimming Under the elms like a nymph who dripples, Dips and glimmers and shines in swimming: Under the linns and the ash-trees lodging, Loops of the limpid waters lie, Shaken of schools of the minnows, dodging The glancing wings of the dragon-fly.

Lower, the loops are lines of laughter Over the stones and the crystal gravel; Afar they gloom, like a face seen after Mirth, where the waters slowly travel; Shadowy slow where the Fork is shaken Of the dropping bark of the sycamore, Where the water-snake, that the footsteps waken, Slides like a crooked root from shore.

Peace of the forest; and silence, dimmer Than dreams. And now a wing that winnows The willow leaves, with their shadows slimmer In the shallow there than a school of minnows: Calm of the creek; and a huge tree twisted, Ringed, and turned to a tree of pearl; A gray-eyed man, who is farmer-fisted, And a dark-eyed, sinewy country girl.

The brow of the man is gnarled and wrinkled With the weight of the words that have just been spoken; And the girl has smiled and her eyes have twinkled, Though the bonds and the bands of their love lie broken: She smiles, nor knows how the days have knotted Her to the heart of the man who says: “Let us follow the paths that we think allotted. I will go my ways and you your ways.

“And the man between us is your decision. Worse or better he is your lover.-- Shall I say he ’s worse since the sweet Elysian Prize he wins where I discover Only the hell of the luckless chooser?-- Shall I say he ’s better than I, or more, Since he is winner and I am loser, His life ’s made rich and mine made poor?”

“I tell you now as I oft and ever Have told,” she answered, the laughter dying Down in her eyes, “that his arms have never Held me!--no!--but you think me lying, And you are wrong. And I think it better To part forever than still to dwell With the sad distrust, like an evil tetter, On our lives forever, and so farewell.”

And she turned away; and he watched her going, The girlish pride in her eyes a-smoulder: He saw her go, and his lips were glowing Fever that parched. And he stood, one shoulder Slouched to the tree; and he saw her stooping, There by the bank, with a reckless foot; Straighten; and tear from her breast his drooping Lilies and fasten the pleurisy-root.

With its orange fire he saw her passing On and on; and the blood beat, burning His brain to madness; and seemingly massing The weight of the world on his heart in yearning ... Butterflies swarmed in the moist sand-alleys; A fairy fleet of Ionian sails They seemed with their wings, or of pirate galleys, Maroon and yellow, for Elfland gales.

He watched her going; and harder, thicker The pulse of his breath and his heart’s hard throbbing.-- How should he know that her heart was sicker? How should he know that her soul was sobbing?-- She never looked back: and he saw her vanish In swirls of the startled butterflies, Like a storm of flowers; and he could not banish The thought he had lost his all through lies.