Yet goldenrod
And goldenglow,
Purple asters
And ruddy oaks,
Sumach spreading
Crimson cloaks,
Apples red
And pumpkins gold—?
Perhaps it's gayer
To be old!
October Afternoon
The air is warm and winey-sweet,
Over my head the oak-leaves shine
Like rich Madeira, glossy brown,
Or garnet red, like old Port wine.
Wild grapes are ripening on the hill,
Dead leaves curl thickly at my feet,
Yet not one falls, it is so still.
Crickets are singing in the sun,
And aimlessly grasshoppers leap
From discontent to discontent,
Their days of leaping nearly done.
There's a rich quietness of earth
That holds no promise any more,
And like a cup, Today is filled
With the last wine the year shall pour.
Maternity
Sturdy is earth,
Dull and mighty,
Unresentful—
Of her own fertility
Covering scars
With healing green.
You cannot anger earth,
You cannot cause her pain
Nor make her remember
Your hungry, querulous love.
At last your unwilling body
She tranquilly receives
And turns it to her uses.
The Father Speaks
My little son, when you were born
There died a being, sweet and wild,
A lovely, careless, radiant child,
A passionate woman—her I mourn.