On stony knoll great aspens swayed
And swung in browsing teeth
Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook
And shivered underneath.
Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent
And wrangled over roof
Of weatherbeaten house, and barn
Whose sag bespoke no hoof.
And ivy crawled up either end
Of house, to chimney, where
It lashed in futile anger at
The wind wolves of the air.
I thought the house abandoned, and
I ran to get inside,
When suddenly the old front door
was opened and flung wide
And she stood there, with hand on knob,
As I went swiftly in,
Then closed the door most softly on
The storm and shrieking din.
A space I stood and looked at her,
So young; 'twas passing strange
That fifty years or more had gone
And brought no new style's change.
The sweetness, daintiness of her
In starched and dotted gown
Of creamy whiteness, over hoops,
With ruffles winding down!
We had not much to say, and yet
Of words I felt no lack;
Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped
A moment, then dropped back.
I felt her pride of race; her taste
In silken rug and chair,
And quaintly fashioned furniture
Of patterns old and rare.
On window sill a rose bush stood;
'Twas bringing rose to bud;
One full bloomed there but yesterday,
Dropped petals, red as blood.
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