Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay? Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch and balsam-fir, O'er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer; But here's a magic cometh new — A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This passionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed, That now, when days are growing drear, As summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold! Thine only, these, thou lonely road! Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pass the charmèd spot Whispers in warning: — "Friend, admire, — But touch me not! "Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!" |