Impelled by memory in a wayward mood, Reluctant, yearning, with a faithless mind, I sought once more a long neglected spot, A wooded upland bordered by the sea, Whose tides were swirling up the reedy sands, Or floating noiseless in the yellow marsh. My way was wild. The winds, awaking, smote My face, but as I passed a ruined wall Brambles and vines and waving blossoms dashed A frolic-welcome, like a summer rain. Shouldering the hills against the murky east Stood stalwart oaks, and in the mossy sod Below the trembling birches whispered me, "Not here!" I reached the silence-loving pines, And lingered. The mists swept from the wooded hills, And, rolling seaward, hid the anchored ships. So, happy, dreaming an old dream again, Of keeping tryst in secret on the knoll, I wandered on, listening in dreamy maze To sounds I thought familiar,--the approach Of well-known footsteps in the leafy path,-- A murmuring voice calling me by name! Through the pine shafts the sunless light of dawn Stole. Day was come. My dream would be fulfilled! Above the hills the sky began to blaze, And ushering morn the west flushed rosy-red; Then, the Sun leaping from his bed of gold, Scattered cloud-banners, crimson, gray, and white. There was my shadow in the leafy path Alone,--none was to keep the tryst with me! No voice, no step among the hills I heard. The joyous swallows from their nestlings flew, Mad in the light with song. Far out at sea The white sails fluttered in the eager breeze, But Day was silent holding tryst with me,-- My pilgrimage rewarded--faith restored. NO ANSWER. You tell me not, green multitude of leaves, Mingling and whirling with the willful breeze, Nor you, bright grasses, trembling blade to blade, What meaneth June, to hap us every year? The spirit of the flowers is watching now, As winking in the sun they suck the dew, The thickets parley with the splendid fields-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year? Up where the brook laps round the shining flags, And tinkling foam bells pass the weedy shore, And where the willow swings above the trout-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year? The clouds hold knowledge in their snowy peaks, They hide it in their moving fleecy folds, They share it with the sunset's golden isles-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year? Fullness and sweetness, and the power of life, Must I in ignorance remain alone, And yield the quest of speech for certain proof? What meaneth June, to hap us every year? Sweetness and beauty, and the power of life, Is it creation's anthem--parts for all? Is this the knowledge--will you answer me What meaneth June, to hap us every year? ON THE HILLTOP. "By the margent of the sea I would build myself a home."