News for Her Mother

I

   One mile more is
   Where your door is
          Mother mine! —
   Harvest’s coming,
   Mills are strumming,
   Apples fine,
And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

   Yet, not viewing
   What’s a-doing
          Here around
   Is it thrills me,
   And so fills me
   That I bound
Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

   Tremble not now
   At your lot now,
         Silly soul!
   Hosts have sped them
   Quick to wed them,
   Great and small,
Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

IV

   Yet I wonder,
   Will it sunder
          Her from me?
   Will she guess that
   I said “Yes,” — that
   His I’d be,
Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

   Old brown gable,
   Granary, stable,
          Here you are!
   O my mother,
   Can another
   Ever bar
Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?