He was the sun-bronzed, resolute and free,
Who buckled his belt against the universe
And challenged the taut rope of mortality:
She, the sweet apples from high green orchards,
The faint grey line of day within a purple land,
The slender willow, the sudden piping voice,
A crystal from the flint-beds of the coves
Whose strength lay in the wildness of her choice.
The calloused hand that grasped the fragile one
Was burning daylight to a feeble star,
A smoking jut of mountains near the sun.
There were busy fiddles and elderberry wine,
And clumsy feet striking the boarded floor
With jarring notes that rimmed the flowing night.
There the ashy face and faded rheumy eye
Blushed and sparkled in the tallow light.
They fled outside beneath the walnut trees
Where a dead-white moon was roistering,
Drawing its beams in skeins across the shadow seas.
His eyes turned back against the wooded ridge
With lonesome glance upon youth withdrawn;
Her heart was quick to climb with breathless sigh
To blossoming orchards of familiar peace.
And mountains laid cold heads against the sky.