Or all earth’s burdened branches hold,
Than any autumn vintage red,
Or yellow sheaves new harvested,
Love’s ripened fruit of mellow gold,
The sum of life, when all is said.
EARLY NOVEMBER
O the sweetness of the jangle
Of the sheep-bells, in the tangle
Of the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!
—Ah, the silence when it ceases!