Isn’t gold heavy, though!—
We shall rust airily!
Heavenly metal!
Years upon years!
NOVEMBER PROTHALAMION
Rubicund Autumn, red as a cardinal, clasps his hands in the wine-chill air,
Shaking down gold from the tattered leafiness, waving his torch till the sky’s aflare,
Stars that sparkle like steel in a swordhilt burn the black water of night’s lagoons,
Out in the frost-rimed waste of the corn-field are yellow pumpkins bigger than moons!
Pilfer the nightingale’s throat, my jackdaw Muse of the rebel and dark pretends,