September’s End
In the ash tree
There is a soft rustling,
Lingering, like
A silken whisper,
Quite different
Than sound the other trees;
As if the bronzy leaves
Had much to say
Before they part,
And were loath
To bid farewell.
Content
(Westfield, N. Y.)
When I linger in my garden
And see black swallowtails hovering
Over white phlox and orange zinnias,
And morning glories, in a heavenly blue mass
Surge upward on their trellis;
When I watch the scintillating humming-bird
Sip from the trumpet blossoms across my doorway,
I feel no urge of travel to behold
More of earth’s beauty.
Here in my little garden I have it all—
And here I am content.
Rhythm
Firelight, and strains of a symphony
Wafting in.
Outside, bare trees
Against leaden skies
Weave their own music
That throbs with the rhythm
Of the orchestra.
The wind moans, and
Strong, black branches
Sway slowly,
Mark the beat,
Then stop.
The wind hums,
Delicate, lacelike tops
Quiver and ripple
With the quick response
Of the violins.
With the shriek of the wind
They writhe and toss,
Measuring the crescendo
Of the brasses.