In September
LEAPING from the boat, through the lazy, sparkling surf,
Up the slope we press, o’er the rich, elastic turf.
Heavy waves the goldenrod in the morning breeze,
Swift spring the startled grasshoppers, thick about our knees.
Look, how shines the distance! Leagues of water blue,
Wind-swept, sunshine-flooded, with a flying sail or two,
Gleaming white as silver, and dreaming, here and there,
A snowy-breasted gull floats in the golden air.
How sweet to climb together the scented, flowery slope,
O dearest, hand in hand, like children following hope;
Laughing at the grasshoppers, singing with delight,
Only to be alive this September morning bright!
But where would be the beauty of this brilliant atmosphere
Wert thou away, my darling? Would not the sky be drear,
And gray the living azure of the changing, sparkling sea?
And blossoms, birds, and sails, and clouds —what would they be to me?
Rest we here a little upon the breezy height,
And watch the play of color, the shadow, and the light,
And let the lovely moment overflow us with its bliss.
When shall we find another so beautiful as this?
I turn from all the splendor to those clear eyes of thine,
That watch the shimmering sails on the far horizon line;
While sun and wind salute thy cheek till roses blossom there,
Thou golden creature, than the morn a thousand times more fair!
Ah! must it end? Must winter hurl its snow across the sea,
And roar with leagues of bitterness between thy face and me?
Must chill December fill with murk and storm this wooing air,
And the west-wind wail like the voice of some supreme despair?
Too surely! But, O friendly eyes, hold summer safe for me;
Only, O gentle heart, keep warm and sweet my memory;
And no fury of the tempest my world can desolate -
This wingèd joy will lift my soul above the storms of fate.
