Dismounting, I offer you wine. And I ask, "Where are you bound?" You say, "I've found no fame or favors; I must return to rest in the South Mountain." You leave, and I ask no more White clouds drift on and on.
*
When those red berries come in springtime, Flushing on your southland branches, Take home an armful, for my sake, As a symbol of our love.
april, come she will when streams are ripe & swelled with rain
tell her to find me an acre of land (on the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves) parsley, sage, rosemary, & thyme (washes the ground with so many tears) between the salt water & the sea strand (a soldier cleans & polishes a gun)
tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather (war bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions) parsley, sage, rosemary, & thyme (generals order their soldiers to kill) & to gather it all in a bunch of heather (& to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten)