Just where the field becomes the wood
I thought I saw again
Her old remembered face — made grey
As it had known the rain.
The trees grow thickly there; no place
Has half so many trees;
And hunted things elude one there
Like ancient memories.
The path itself is hard to find,
And slopes up suddenly;
— In the old days it was a path
None knew so well as we.
The path slopes upward, till it leaves
The great trees far behind;
— I met her once where the slender birch
Grow up to meet the wind.
Where the poplars quiver endlessly
And the falling leaves are grey,
I saw her come, and I was glad
That she had learned the way.
She paused a moment where the path
Grew sunlighted and broad;
Within her hair slept all the gold
Of all the golden-rod.
And then the wood closed in on her.
And my hand found her hand;
She had no words to say, yet I
Was quick to understand.
I dared to look in her two eyes;
They too, I thought, were grey:
But no sun shone, and all around
Great, quiet shadows lay.
Yet, as I looked, I surely knew
That they knew nought of tears,—
But this was very long ago,
— A year, perhaps ten years.
All this was long ago. Today,
Her hand met not with mine;
And where the pathway widened out
I saw no gold hair shine.
I had a weary, fruitless search,
— I think that her wan face
Was but the face of one asleep
Who dreams she knew this place.