| HOW
memory cuts away the years, |
| And how clean the
picture comes |
| Of autumn days, brisk and busy; |
| Charged
with keen sunshine. |
| And you, stirred with
activity, |
| The spirit of those energetic days. |
| |
| There
was our back-yard, |
| So plain and stripped of
green, |
| With even the weeds carefully pulled
away |
| From the crooked red bricks that made the
walk, |
| And the earth on either side so black. |
| |
| Autumn
and dead leaves burning in the sharp air. |
| And
winter comforts coming in like a pageant. |
| I
shall not forget them:— |
| Great jars laden with
the raw green of pickles, |
| Standing in a solemn
row across the back of the porch, |
| Exhaling the
pungent dill; |
| And in the very centre of the
yard, |
| You, tending the great catsup kettle of
gleaming copper, |
| Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed
up and down |
| Like jolly monks in a drunken
dance. |
| And there were bland banks of cabbages
that came by the wagon-load, |
| Soon to be cut
into delicate ribbons |
| Only to be crushed by the
heavy, wooden stompers. |
| Such feathery
whiteness—to come to kraut! |
| And after, there
were grapes that hid their brightness under a grey dust, |
| Then
gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; |
| And
enamelled crab-apples that tricked with their fragrance |
| But
were bitter to taste. |
| And there were spicy
plums and ill-shaped quinces, |
| And long string
beans floating in pans of clear water |
| Like
slim, green fishes. |
| And there was fish itself, |
| Salted,
silver herring from the city.... |
| |
| And
you moved among these mysteries, |
| Absorbed and
smiling and sure; |
| Stirring, tasting, measuring, |
| With
the precision of a ritual. |
| I like to think of
you in your years of power— |
| You, now so
shaken and so powerless— |
| High priestess of
your home. |
|