Iv

Like Atalanta’s spheres of gold, Within the orchard, apples rolled From sudden hands of boughs that lay Their leaves, like palms, against the day; And near them pears of rusty brown Rolled bruised; and peaches, pink with down, And furry as the ears of Pan; Or, like Diana’s cheeks, a tan Beneath which burnt a tender fire; Or wan as Psyche’s with desire. And down the orchard vistas,--young, A hickory basket by him swung, A hat of straw against the sun Drawn shadowy o’er his face,--he strode; As if he looked to find some one, His eyes searched every bend of road. Before him, like a living burr, Rattled the noisy grasshopper. And where the cows’ melodious bells Trailed music up and down the dells, Beside the spring, that o’er the ground Went whimpering like a fretful hound, He saw her waiting, fair and slim, Her pail forgotten there, for him. Yellow as sunset skies and pale As fairy clouds that stay or sail Through azure vaults of summer, blue As summer heavens, the wildflowers grew; And blossoms on which spurts of light Fell laughing--like the lips one might Feign once were Hebe’s, or a girl’s That laughter lights with rows of pearls. Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped; And mosses moist, in beryl steeped And musk aromas of the wood And silence of the solitude: And everything that near her blew The spring had showered thick with dew.-- Across the rambling fence she leaned, Her fresh, round arms all white and bare; Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened, Simplicity from feet to hair. A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine-- Ah! ’tis his step, ’tis he she hears; The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine-- He comes, ah, yes! ’tis he who nears. And her brown eyes and happy face Said welcome. And with rustic grace He leant beside her; and they had Some talk with youthful laughter glad: I know not what: I know but this-- Its final period was a kiss.