Just where the field becomes the wood
I thought I saw again
Her old remembered face—made gray
As it had known the rain.
The trees grow thickly there; no place
Has half so many trees;
And hunted things elude one there
Like ancient memories.
The path itself is hard to find,
And slopes up suddenly;
—I met her once where the slender birch
Grow up to meet the wind.
Where the poplars quiver endlessly
And the falling leaves are gray,
I saw her come, and I was glad
That she had learned the way.
She paused a moment where the path
Grew sunlighted and broad;
Within her hair slept all the gold
Of all the goldenrod.
And then the wood closed in on her,
And my hand found her hand;
She had no words to say, yet I
Was quick to understand.
I dared to look in her two eyes;
They too, I thought, were gray:
But no sun shone, and all around
Great, quiet shadows lay.
Yet, as I looked, I surely knew
That they knew nought of tear,—
But this was very long ago,
—A year, perhaps ten years.
All this was long ago. Today,
Her hand met not with mine;
And where the pathway widened out
I saw no gold hair shine.
I had a weary, fruitless search.
—I think that her wan face
Was but the face of one asleep
Who dreams she knew this place.
