" MINE OWN VINEYARD HAVE I NOT KEPT "

For Henrietta Crosman

She passed our vineyard through one winter day,
And with her magic laughter summoned Spring;
Whereat a thousand birds began to sing,
And starry flowers sprang to light her way;
And now where once she paused to smile and stay
A little while, the Autumn comes to bring
The days of festival and harvesting, —
The winepress waits for dancing feet at play.

But in the vineyard that she callSher own
No purple grapes hang heavy on the vine,
No laughter lingers on her listless lips, —
She stands within a mist, far off, alone, —
No maidens sing to tread the dripping wine,
And from her hand a faded garland slips.