Except, returning, by the Marlboro, A way, methinks, might safely be allowed To pilgrims of the holiest character We marked, I say, the barberry's brilliant fruit, Which on our hill & pasture grows to waste Not the less sweet to see though sour to taste ''" And in a rocky lane through which we passed Not so much lengthwise as diagonally In our saint-terrering over hill & valley We plucked wild apples of the fairest hew Filling our pockets out with eagerness, Excellent whether to eat or look at, Or to throw at one another & the Squirrels in sport; & afterward tame ones In orchards heaped by a penurious hind, Who saw but heaps of dollars in his mind; Some what less tame to us for being stolen, Although our pockets were already swolen; And, one more proof, I saw at Willis Lake Where we had come our nature's thirst to slake The willow bed which ornaments its edge Mixed with the cranberry ''" button bush & sedge Touched by the frost send forth its scarlet flames, Which far surpassed all oriental dyes Reminding me of the wild wealth of the skies And of the red man who once on this shore Beheld it, ere his last summer was oer. So we returned from Willis Pond & Hill, I climb the last & drink the former still. |