—Holbrook Jackson, ed., Bookman’s Holiday, 1946
                                                               
The scarlet beans are up in crowds.
It has rained sweetly for two hours and a half;
The air is very mild. The heckberry
Blossoms are dropping off fast, almost gone;
Snowballs coming forward; May roses blooming.
I have nobody now left but you.

I think of innumerable things; steal out
Westward at sunset, take oar, and row
In the dark or moonlight. In the evening I scribble
A little; all this mixed with reading.
I have a piano, but seldom play.
Books are becoming everything to me.

I stroll. I find the glades empty. I look
At every tree. O my dear bairn,
If I had thee here, I feel as if
I should be quite happy for a while.
I propose you come up here to live.
We will buy together five or six

Hundred acres, and have a sheep farm.
We shall have pleasant breakfasts, dinners.
Here we would have our books. Shall we not?
But this too late. The fire is at
Its last click. Would this May weather last.
But June comes; the rabid dogs get muzzles.