Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise. The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me. And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian file, Allure me even so. Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars With which to seek him through that awful night O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes! So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My avant-courier must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there a while. In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country walks "And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sick Our bumblebees on you!" But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast-- Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips. In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands: Or the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags: Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid. I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air, As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed. Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm. A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.