Herb-Gatherer, learnéd in the lore Of roots medicinal and leaf-cure, meek, Did you, a Syracusan boy, once seek By Arethusa's font, Cyane's shore, The hemlock and the hellebore? Or were you shown by an old monk from Spain Here on these Spanish hills long, long ago, Where yerba santa, yerba buena grow, Secret of potion pitiful to pain And juice for sleep that never wakes again? Now evenings on our rocky heritage, You gather, as we walk the tangled way, Wormwood and yarrow, fennel, mint, and bay. Or mornings, as an antidote to age, You bring me elderberry tea, or sage. Herb-gatherer, have your root and leaf and flower No other magic than for pain's surcease? No philtre in your brew for Love's increase? For I who thought him grown to his full height, Find him a star-span taller every night. |