  It would be sweet to think when we are old Of all the pleasant days that came to pass, That here we took the berries from the grass, There charmed the bees with pans, and smoke unrolled, And spread the melon nets when nights were cold, Or pulled the blood-root in the underbrush, And marked the ringing of the tawny thrush, While all the west was broken burning gold. And so I bind with rhymes these memories; As girls press pansies in the poet’s leaves And find them afterwards with sweet surprise; Or treasure petals mingled with perfume, Loosing them in the days when April grieves,— A subtle summer in the rainy room. |
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