Except, returning, by the Marlboro

Except, returning, by the Marlboro,
A way, methinks, might safely be allowed
To pilgrims of the holiest character
We marked, I say, the barberry's brilliant fruit,
Which on our hill & pasture grows to waste
Not the less sweet to see though sour to taste —
And in a rocky lane through which we passed
Not so much lengthwise as diagonally
In our saint-terrering over hill & valley
We plucked wild apples of the fairest hew
Filling our pockets out with eagerness,
Excellent whether to eat or look at,
Or to throw at one another & the
Squirrels in sport; & afterward tame ones
In orchards heaped by a penurious hind,
Who saw but heaps of dollars in his mind;
Some what less tame to us for being stolen,
Although our pockets were already swolen;
And, one more proof, I saw at Willis Lake
Where we had come our nature's thirst to slake
The willow bed which ornaments its edge
Mixed with the cranberry — button bush & sedge
Touched by the frost send forth its scarlet flames,
Which far surpassed all oriental dyes
Reminding me of the wild wealth of the skies
And of the red man who once on this shore
Beheld it, ere his last summer was oer.
So we returned from Willis Pond & Hill,
I climb the last & drink the former still.
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