Let me go now, now that from grown alders leaves
Have torn loose, and go flying close to the sand
Along the black river-water. White rye-grass bends
Under the wind, under the sky, toward water
Where the pheasants feed, hiding; and the few willows,
With dark alder leaves caught in them, join and part.
I have not seen them for so long I see dark mouths
Black with juice of berries, and I remember the children
Who ran shaking the tall rye-grass. So they run
And scatter as if caught in the wind, gathering
The last beach fruit, late ripening, which they can save.