The fires of Autumn are burning low;
Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!
Blow the flames to a ruddier show,
Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.
Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!
Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;
White is the death stone, white and drear,
Over a desolate world of ashes.
In the Grass
FACE downward on the grass in reverie,
I found how cool and sweet
Are the green glooms that often thoughtlessly
I tread beneath my feet.
In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean—
Elf trees untouched of bark—
I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheen
Of sunlight framing dark,
And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,
And know not how to speak,
A daisy reaching up its little hand
To lay it on my cheek.
The Fields of Dark
THE wreathing vine within the porch
Is in the heart of me,
The roses that the noondays scorch
Shall burn in memory;
Alone at night I quench the light,
And without star or spark
The grass and trees press to my knees,
And flowers throng the dark.
The leaves that loose their hold at noon
Drop on my face like rain,
And in the watches of the moon
I feel them fall again.
By day I stray how far away
To stream and wood and steep,
But on my track they all come back
To haunt the vale of sleep.