Gentian

So all day long I followed through the fields The voice of Autumn, calling from afar; And now I thought: “Yon hazel thicket yields A glimpse of her,” and now: “These asters are Sure sign that she of late has passed this way; Lo! here the traces of her yellow car.” And once I looked and seemed to see her stand Beneath a golden maple’s black-drawn boughs; But when I reached the place, naught but a band Of crickets did perform their tuneful vows To the soon fading grass, and through the leaves The quiet sunlight, falling, blessed my brows. Till, as the long rays lengthened from the west, I came upon an altar of gray stone, O’er which a creeper flung with pious zest Her flickering flames. About that altar lone, The crowding sumac burned with steady fire; Before it, stately, stood a priestess; one Who turned to me her melancholy eyes. I saw her beauty, ripe with color’s breath, Yet veiled, as when on wood and hill there lies A mist, a shadow, as of coming death. And while I gazed she faded; swift I clutched Her fringëd cloak, which rent, my grasp beneath. And she was gone. As fluttered to the ground Its many fragments, I with sudden fears, Stooped, vainly seeking them, when all around The blue fringed gentian smiled up through my tears, As one who knows his welcome will be warm, Although sad news to his beloved he bears.