Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Elizabeth GreenCrane1737 Gentian
S
The voice of Autumn, calling from afar;
And now I thought: “Yon hazel thicket yields
A glimpse of her,” and now: “These asters are
Sure sign that she of late has passed this way;
Lo! here the traces of her yellow car.”
Beneath a golden maple’s black-drawn boughs;
But when I reached the place, naught but a band
Of crickets did perform their tuneful vows
To the soon fading grass, and through the leaves
The quiet sunlight, falling, blessed my brows.
I came upon an altar of gray stone,
O’er which a creeper flung with pious zest
Her flickering flames. About that altar lone,
The crowding sumac burned with steady fire;
Before it, stately, stood a priestess; one
I saw her beauty, ripe with color’s breath,
Yet veiled, as when on wood and hill there lies
A mist, a shadow, as of coming death.
And while I gazed she faded; swift I clutched
Her fringëd cloak, which rent, my grasp beneath.
Its many fragments, I with sudden fears,
Stooped, vainly seeking them, when all around
The blue fringed gentian smiled up through my tears,
As one who knows his welcome will be warm,
Although sad news to his beloved he bears.