But a golden arch forever shines
In the dim and darkening past.
Where I stand again as day declines.
And the world is bright and vast;
For the glory that lies along the lane
Is endeared with sweet perfume
And the world is ours, and we are twain
At the feast of apple bloom.
She was more than fair in the wreath she wore
Of the creamy buds and blows.
And she comes to me from the speechless shore
When the flowering orchard glows;
And I sigh for the dreams so sweet and swift.
That are laid in a sacred tomb—
That are nothing at least but fragrant drift
From the feast of apple bloom.
THE NYMPHS OF THE CASCADES
The campfire, like a red night rose.
Blossomed beneath a gloomy fir
When weary men, in deep repose,
Heard not the gentle night wind stir
Her priestly robes high overhead,
Heard not the wild brook's wailing song
Nor any nameless sounds of dread
Which to the midnight woods belong.
The moon sailed onm a golden bark
Astray in lilied purple seas,
While forest shadows, weirdly dark,
Were peopled with all mysteries;
And all was wild and drear and strange
Around that lonely bivouac,
Where mountains, rising range on range,
Shouldered the march of progress back.
The red fire's fluttering tongues of flame
Whispered to brooding darkness there,
While spectral shapes without a name
Were hovering in the haunted air;
