WILD PEACHES by Elinor Wylie

When the world turns completely upside down
You say we ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore
We ll live among wild peachtrees, miles from town,
You ll wear a coonskin cap and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut s dark gold color.
Lost like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We ll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The Winter will be short, the Summer long,
The Autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but Autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.

The Autumn frosts will be upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; as full as they can hold,
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

Peaches grow wild, and peaches can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The Spring begins before the winter s over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead white and cloudy-clear

3
When April pours the colors of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak
We shall live well-we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, somber bloomed and black;
Then down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We'll trample bright persimmons, while we kill
Bronze partridge; speckled quail, and canvasback.

4
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate
A thread of water churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones

I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves;
That Spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

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