Crimson and gold in the paling sky;
The rampikes black where they tower on high,—
And we follow the trails in the early dawn
Through the glades where the white frosts lie.
Down where the flaming maples meet;
Where the leaves are blood before our feet
We follow the lure of the twisting paths
While the air tastes thin and sweet
Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew
The long twin barrels are cold and blue;
But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins,
And our eyes and hands are true.
Where the sun drifts down from overhead
(Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed),
Rush of wings through the forest aisle—
And the leaves are a brighter red.
Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh;
Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die.
There's blackened shell in the trampled fern
When the white moon swims the sky.
At the Year's End
The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows.
The last gray feather to southward goes.
Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
When the lonely north-wind blows.
The harrow and sickle are laid away.
The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
While Death stalks free in the silent world,
Through the gloom of a winter's day.
In the creeping night the black winds cry.
The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
Crawls up to a grayer sky.
Winter Winds