At the turn of the wood-road gleams;
On the hearth the gray log sings
Sleepy songs of vanished things—
Babbling, bubbling John-a-Dreams.
August is autumn now.
Find the field where, dead and dry,
Under the broad still noontide sky,
Bleached in the flow of the bright-blue weather,
Stalks of the milkweed stand together.
Take the pale-brown pod in hand,