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| SO much have I forgotten in ten years, | |
| So much in ten brief years; I have forgot | |
| What time the purple apples come to juice | |
| And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; | |
| Forgotten is the special, startling season | 5 |
| Of some beloved tree’s flowering and fruiting, | |
| What time of year the ground doves brown the fields | |
| And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: | |
| I have forgotten much, but still remember | |
| The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. | 10 |
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| I still recall the honey-fever grass, | |
| But I cannot bring back to mind just when | |
| We rooted them out of the ping-wing path | |
| To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. | |
| I often try to think in what sweet month | 15 |
| The languid painted ladies used to dapple | |
| The yellow bye road mazing from the main, | |
| Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: | |
| I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember | |
| The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. | 20 |
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| What weeks, what months, what time o’ the mild year | |
| We cheated school to have our fling at tops? | |
| What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy | |
| Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? | |
| Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, | 25 |
| Even the sacred moments, when we played, | |
| All innocent of passion uncorrupt, | |
| At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade: | |
| We were so happy, happy,—I remember | |
| Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December. | 30 |
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