The Poetry Corner

Barter

By Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

There is a long thin line of fading gold In the far West, and the transfigured leaves On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold The pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze, Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways. There is a soft enchantment in the air, A mystery the Summer knows not, nor The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield. A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod, Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flash Of sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash. She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smile Of frank surrender. As a witching maid In gorgeous garments cunningly arrayed Might smile and draw them closer, hers the guile To let men hope, pray, labor in love's stress Ere they her hidden beauties may possess. Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise, Down with the sweet linna and the moss, In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines toss In Winter's harrying storms her secret lies. Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting pain Ere we her fairy wealth may hope to gain. 'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turn Great Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes grow Dim in the dusk of years, and heads bend low Weary at last, the truth we strove to learn Is ours forever. But its joy of sight Is dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight. Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning hand Doles out our happiness; we snatch at wealth And pay with anxious care and fading health. We call for Love, and dream that we shall stand On ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way, The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day. Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchange Of gifts and griefs, and so I render thee Vows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringly What love demands, nor ever deem it strange. And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds sting I make no murmur, but await the Spring.