XL.
30 lines✦
ell me not here, it needs not saying,What tune the enchantress playsIn aftermaths of soft SeptemberOr under blanching mays,For she and I were long acquaintedAnd I knew all her ways. On russet floors, by waters idle,The pine lets fall its cone;The cuckoo shouts all day at nothingIn leafy dells alone;And traveler's joy beguiles in autumnHearts that have lost their own. On acres of the seeded grassesThe changing burnish heaves;Or marshalled under moons of harvestStand still all night the sheaves;Or beeches strip in storms for winterAnd stain the wind with leaves. Possess, as I possessed a season,The countries I resign,Where over elmy plains the highwayWould mount the hills and shine,And full of shade the pillared forestWould murmur and be mine. For nature, heartless, witless nature,Will neither care nor knowWhat stranger's feet may find the meadowAnd trespass there and go,Nor ask amid the dews of morningIf they are mine or no.
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