Barter

There is a long thin line of fading gold         In the far West, and the transfigured leaves         On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves     Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold         The pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze,         Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.     There is a soft enchantment in the air,         A mystery the Summer knows not, nor         The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore     Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there         I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field         And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.     A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod         Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray         Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray     The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod,         Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flash         Of sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.     She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smile         Of frank surrender. As a witching maid         In gorgeous garments cunningly arrayed     Might smile and draw them closer, hers the guile         To let men hope, pray, labor in love's stress         Ere they her hidden beauties may possess.     Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise,         Down with the sweet linna and the moss,         In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines toss     In Winter's harrying storms her secret lies.         Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting pain         Ere we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.     'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turn         Great Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes grow         Dim in the dusk of years, and heads bend low     Weary at last, the truth we strove to learn         Is ours forever. But its joy of sight         Is dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.     Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning hand         Doles out our happiness; we snatch at wealth         And pay with anxious care and fading health.     We call for Love, and dream that we shall stand         On ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way,         The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.     Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchange         Of gifts and griefs, and so I render thee         Vows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringly     What love demands, nor ever deem it strange.         And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds sting         I make no murmur, but await the Spring.