YELLOW CLOVERMust I, who walk alone,come on it still,This Puck of plantsThe wise would do away with,The sunshine slantsTo play with,Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover,Which once in Parting for a timeThat then seemed long,Ere time for you was over,We sealed our own?Do you remember yet,O Soul beyond the stars,Beyond the uttermost dim barsOf space,Dear Soul, who found earth sweet,Remember by love’s grace,In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song,How suddenly we halted in our climb,Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill,Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet,And gave them as a tokenEach to Each,In lieu of speech,In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken,Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wetWith a strange dew of tears?So it began,This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover,To be our tenderest language. All the yearsIt lent a new zest to the summer hours,As each of us went scheming to surpriseThe other with our homely, laureate flowers.Sonnets and odesFringing our daily roads.Can amaranth and asphodelBring merrier laughter to your eyes?Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes,Keep any wistful consciousness of earth,Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love,Simplicities of mirth,Must follow them aboveWith touches of vague homesickness that passLike shadows of swift birds across the grass.Beneath some foreign arch of sky,How many a time the roverYou or I,For life oft sundered look from look,And voice from voice, the transient dearthSchooling my soul to brookThis distance that no messages may span,Would chanceUpon our wilding by a lonely well,Or drowsy watermill,Or swaying to the chime of convent bell,Or where the nightingales of old romanceWith tragical contraltos fillDim solitudes of infinite desire;And once I joyed to meetOur peasant gadaboutA trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat,Twinkling a saucy eyeAs potentates paced by.Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flameFrom friendship’s altar fire!How proudly we would pluck and tameThe dimpling clusters, mutinously gay!How swiftly they were sentFar, far awayOn journeys wide,By sea and continent,Green miles and blue leagues over,From each of us to each,That so our hearts might reach,And touch within the yellow clover,Love’s letter to be glad aboutLike sunshine when it came!My sorrow asks no healing; it is love;Let love then make me braveTo bear the keen hurts ofThis careless summertide,Ay, of our own poor flower,Changed with our fatal hour,For all its sunshine vanished when you died;Only white clover blossoms on your grave.KATHERINE LEE BATES
Must I, who walk alone,come on it still,This Puck of plantsThe wise would do away with,The sunshine slantsTo play with,Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover,Which once in Parting for a timeThat then seemed long,Ere time for you was over,We sealed our own?Do you remember yet,O Soul beyond the stars,Beyond the uttermost dim barsOf space,Dear Soul, who found earth sweet,Remember by love’s grace,In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song,How suddenly we halted in our climb,Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill,Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet,And gave them as a tokenEach to Each,In lieu of speech,In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken,Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wetWith a strange dew of tears?So it began,This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover,To be our tenderest language. All the yearsIt lent a new zest to the summer hours,As each of us went scheming to surpriseThe other with our homely, laureate flowers.Sonnets and odesFringing our daily roads.Can amaranth and asphodelBring merrier laughter to your eyes?Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes,Keep any wistful consciousness of earth,Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love,Simplicities of mirth,Must follow them aboveWith touches of vague homesickness that passLike shadows of swift birds across the grass.Beneath some foreign arch of sky,How many a time the roverYou or I,For life oft sundered look from look,And voice from voice, the transient dearthSchooling my soul to brookThis distance that no messages may span,Would chanceUpon our wilding by a lonely well,Or drowsy watermill,Or swaying to the chime of convent bell,Or where the nightingales of old romanceWith tragical contraltos fillDim solitudes of infinite desire;And once I joyed to meetOur peasant gadaboutA trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat,Twinkling a saucy eyeAs potentates paced by.Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flameFrom friendship’s altar fire!How proudly we would pluck and tameThe dimpling clusters, mutinously gay!How swiftly they were sentFar, far awayOn journeys wide,By sea and continent,Green miles and blue leagues over,From each of us to each,That so our hearts might reach,And touch within the yellow clover,Love’s letter to be glad aboutLike sunshine when it came!My sorrow asks no healing; it is love;Let love then make me braveTo bear the keen hurts ofThis careless summertide,Ay, of our own poor flower,Changed with our fatal hour,For all its sunshine vanished when you died;Only white clover blossoms on your grave.
KATHERINE LEE BATES