 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
145
THE LAST SUNDAY OF OCTOBER
I am rich in my pond and its willows;
I am rich in my crimson trees;
In the autumn's golden coinage
Which falls with the stirring breeze.
I am rich in my crimson trees;
In the autumn's golden coinage
Which falls with the stirring breeze.
In the sky's soft brow of azure,
Where every morning's rays
Make merciful erasure
Of the frown of darkest days.
Where every morning's rays
Make merciful erasure
Of the frown of darkest days.
I am rich in the winds whose cadence
So solemnly doth blow,
As the hours in still procession
Towards the noon's high mass do go.
So solemnly doth blow,
As the hours in still procession
Towards the noon's high mass do go.
So I thought, this Sunday morning,
As I walked and mused alone;
Seeking to enter God's temple,
And finding it, not in stone.
As I walked and mused alone;
Seeking to enter God's temple,
And finding it, not in stone.
| From Sunset Ridge | |