 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
AUTUMN.
In the misty valley, Autumn, moving drowsily,
Slipping rings of marigolds on her chilly fingers,
Binds her gipsy locks with gems as she wanders frowsily
'Mid the ageratum stalks where in dreams she lingers.
Slipping rings of marigolds on her chilly fingers,
Binds her gipsy locks with gems as she wanders frowsily
'Mid the ageratum stalks where in dreams she lingers.
In the fields her footprints shine in aster-glimmerings.
And by streams, o'er which she leans as above a mirror,
Gazing on her face awhile in its lacy shimmerings
Of the mist that swathes her form when the dusk draws nearer.
And by streams, o'er which she leans as above a mirror,
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Of the mist that swathes her form when the dusk draws nearer.
In her hand she folds the bee, crooning soft and honeyly,
Then within a gentian-crib bids its heart be quiet;
And the butterfly she takes, winging over sunnily,
Drops it weary on a rose saying, “There! rest by it!”
Then within a gentian-crib bids its heart be quiet;
And the butterfly she takes, winging over sunnily,
Drops it weary on a rose saying, “There! rest by it!”
And all night one hears her gown rustling sere and frostily
As her creaking shoes go by with their cricket-buckles;
Through the moonlight, past the door, stealing gray and ghostily,
Now upon the pane she taps with her twig-like knuckles.
As her creaking shoes go by with their cricket-buckles;
Through the moonlight, past the door, stealing gray and ghostily,
Now upon the pane she taps with her twig-like knuckles.
Somewhere yonder, in the dark, where the owl hoots—meagrely
Death is waiting, grim and gaunt, in the fading forest;
Bleak of face and hollow-eyed, who shall seize her eagerly,
Drag her to the underworld when the storm is sorest.
Death is waiting, grim and gaunt, in the fading forest;
Bleak of face and hollow-eyed, who shall seize her eagerly,
Drag her to the underworld when the storm is sorest.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |