Wild Peaches
                        
                            By Elinor Wylie
                        
                    
                
                                                                
                                                              1 
 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 peach trees, 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 of 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.
                                   2 
 The autumn frosts will lie 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; full as they can hold
 Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
 Peaches grow wild, and pigs 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, sombre-bloomed and black;
 Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
 We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you 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 meagre 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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