In the Spring through the forest her walk was quick As she searched here and there for a straight-grown stick; When in Summer the forest lay hot in the sun She still labored on for her task was not done; For perfection is always hard to find, Yet the thought of its promise obsessed all her mind. Now she stands, while the winds of Autumn moan, With regret as her guest in a field unsown.
A woman walks through the forest looking for one perfectly straight stick. Spring comes and she hurries on; summer arrives, hot and still, and she keeps working. The poem never says what the stick is for, which makes it feel like a small fable. What matters is her stubbornness: she believes the right one is out there, and "the thought of its promise" fills her mind.
Then the seasons turn. By autumn she is standing in "a field unsown," holding nothing, with regret for company. The field is the quiet punchline. Spring and summer are when planting happens, and she spent them searching instead. Her pursuit of the flawless has cost her the ordinary, useful work she might have done.
The mood darkens as the poem moves from brisk, rhyming energy to the moaning wind of autumn. It reads as a gentle warning: waiting for perfect can mean ending up with nothing.