The other day I rowed in my boat
a free even lovely young
lady
and as I plied the oars
she sat in the stern
and there was
nothing but she
between me
and the sky.
Along the river
the memory of roses --
late rose now in prime.
Thoughts of autumn and
the memory of past years
occupy my mind.
What you can recall of a walk
on the second day will differ from
what you remember on the first day --
as to one who is
journeying amid mountains
any view changes.
Farewell, my friend
my path inclines
to this side the mountain,
yours to that --
for a long time you have appeared
further and further off to me --
I see that you will at length
disappear altogether--
for a season my path
seemed lonely without you --
the memory of me is steadily
passing away from you --
my path grows narrower and steeper
and the night is approaching.
I am struck by this sudden solitude
and remoteness that these places have acquired.
This evening for the first time the new moon
is reflected from the frozen snow-crust.
is now neither the morning star
nor the evening star.
See also:
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Reminiscence and Prompting
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