Vi

And he returned when poppies strewed Their golden blots o’er moss and leaf,-- Blond little Esaus of the wood, So fair of face, of life so brief.-- Did he forget?--Not he, in truth!-- “No month,” he thought, “holds so much grace, No month of spring, such grace and youth, As the sweet April of her face.”

In fall the frail gerardia Hung hints of sunset and of dawn On root and rock, as if to draw Her lips, remind him of one gone:-- Of one unworthy, in pursuit Of butterflies, who does not dream A flower, broken by her foot, Sweeps, helpless, with her down the stream.