Idlewild
1
Once in the land of the Maple,
In the midmost Autumn time,
The mellow, waning, yellow,
Indian summer time,
With the maid Estelle I stray'd
To gather leaves in a lonely glade
Afar in the forest of Idlewild —
Forgotten Idlewild.
2
And we linger'd there, for we sought
The choicest of the leaves;
'Twas hard to choose, and we could not
Decide on the loveliest leaves;
But all that dying Indian day,
While it waned and waned away,
How they floated round us, glinting
In the amber light, and tinting
All the aisles of Idlewild!
All the aisles and hidden places
Where the forest interlaces
O'er the paths in Idlewild!
How they vanish'd, strangely hinting
Of the silent other spaces
More remote in Idlewild!
Fell or vanish'd, ever hinting
Of the secret that effaces
All the joy of Idlewild!
3
Till the Gates of the West were open'd —
O! the Gates of the West are wide!
And the amber light sank down and flow'd
Away in a wine-red tide; —
Away thro' the forest of Idlewild
In a wine-red, weird tide.
4
But the leaves drank deep till they drain'd
The wine-light out of the West; —
The last of the wine, till it stain'd
Their hearts with the hues of the West, —
With the hectic hues of the West.
5
Ah, now in the land of the Maple,
In the midmost Autumn time,
The mellow, waning, yellow,
Indian summer time,
Disconsolate I roam
Afar within the aisled,
Olden, silent, golden
Forest of Idlewild, —
Forest of lonely memories only, —
Silent and golden-aisled.
6
But I find therein no solace save
At a spot made holy with tears;
At a spot where the ancient branches wave
O'er the palest dead that ever they gave
To that forest made holy with tears.
And the hours pass there unheeded by
As I dream o'er the remnant leaves that lie
Strewn from the dim receding years
Deep on her grave.
7
O, Estelle, beloved!
Maid of my heart's one dream!
Thy vision thro' far Elysian
Vistas I see in my dream; —
Vistas that loom thro' the ultimate West,
Wherein thy soul hath sunk to rest; —
O richer than life in a dream sublime,
Beyond the tremor and touch of Time!
Once in the land of the Maple,
In the midmost Autumn time,
The mellow, waning, yellow,
Indian summer time,
With the maid Estelle I stray'd
To gather leaves in a lonely glade
Afar in the forest of Idlewild —
Forgotten Idlewild.
2
And we linger'd there, for we sought
The choicest of the leaves;
'Twas hard to choose, and we could not
Decide on the loveliest leaves;
But all that dying Indian day,
While it waned and waned away,
How they floated round us, glinting
In the amber light, and tinting
All the aisles of Idlewild!
All the aisles and hidden places
Where the forest interlaces
O'er the paths in Idlewild!
How they vanish'd, strangely hinting
Of the silent other spaces
More remote in Idlewild!
Fell or vanish'd, ever hinting
Of the secret that effaces
All the joy of Idlewild!
3
Till the Gates of the West were open'd —
O! the Gates of the West are wide!
And the amber light sank down and flow'd
Away in a wine-red tide; —
Away thro' the forest of Idlewild
In a wine-red, weird tide.
4
But the leaves drank deep till they drain'd
The wine-light out of the West; —
The last of the wine, till it stain'd
Their hearts with the hues of the West, —
With the hectic hues of the West.
5
Ah, now in the land of the Maple,
In the midmost Autumn time,
The mellow, waning, yellow,
Indian summer time,
Disconsolate I roam
Afar within the aisled,
Olden, silent, golden
Forest of Idlewild, —
Forest of lonely memories only, —
Silent and golden-aisled.
6
But I find therein no solace save
At a spot made holy with tears;
At a spot where the ancient branches wave
O'er the palest dead that ever they gave
To that forest made holy with tears.
And the hours pass there unheeded by
As I dream o'er the remnant leaves that lie
Strewn from the dim receding years
Deep on her grave.
7
O, Estelle, beloved!
Maid of my heart's one dream!
Thy vision thro' far Elysian
Vistas I see in my dream; —
Vistas that loom thro' the ultimate West,
Wherein thy soul hath sunk to rest; —
O richer than life in a dream sublime,
Beyond the tremor and touch of Time!
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