XV
CHESTNUTS IN NOVEMBER
I
Not all the trees are done, the branches mean,
The trunks begrimed and sodden, no, not all.
How fresh and, tho' a few, how prodigal
On yonder chestnut here and there are seen
White wisps, and, frilled about them, bits of green!
They colour on the deadness of the Fall,
They spring and with the 'lated swallows call
Happy next year into the year that 's been.
O call not Nature spendthrift, and of these
Say not they bloom in error for the frost!
The sweetness of all things are promises
That sing our souls a little further on
Toward that which may be found in what is lost,
Which may come back again of what is gone.
II
I also, where I stand within thy soul
A plant of thine and growing in thy year,
Must, if the season turneth to the sere,
If so it please thee, lose my aureole.
Yet tho' my leaves to the last one should roll
Away down on the wind and disappear,
And I should nothing question but the drear
Great darkness should impenetrate me whole,
The midnight in my eyes would ne'ertheless
Not firmly hang, but sway, and breaking shine
With thoughts of gold and stars of happiness,
That at the end thou mightest repossess,
Mightest possess again and further bless
My sad and human acres, that are thine.
