One follows the feet of September to the forest
Windowed wide with azure, doored with green,
Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen—
Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold;
Now like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on fold
Of heavy mauve; and now, like the intense
Massed iron-weed, a purple opulence;
or wanders under the Hunter’s Moon to watch the frost spirits
… with fine fingers, phantom-cold,
Splitting the wahoo’s pods of rose, and thin