AUTUMN TEA TIME
The late light falls across the floor,
Turned amber from a yellow tree,—
And there are yellow cups for four,
And lemon for the tea.
The maples, with a million flames,
Have lit the golden afternoon,
An ambient radiance that shames
The ineffective moon....
Till dull and smoky greys return,
Quenching the street with chills and damps—
Leaving these asters where they burn,
Mellow like evening lamps.
BATTLEFIELDS
Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth,
These hills that lift their many a naked scar,
There yet shall come the indomitable mirth
Of Springs that have remembered where they are.
The slow processions of sweet sun and rain
Will crown the changing seasons as they pass,
With healing and green fruit and swollen grain,
And banners of the gay and dauntless grass.
Here little paths will find their way again,
And here the patient cattle come to stand,
Until, grown half-incredulous, these men
Looking from doorways on the evening land,
Can scarcely think—so deep the quiet lies—
How all of this was ever otherwise.