Volume Iii Part 19 (1/2)

Emily d.i.c.kinson [1830-1886]

”WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN”

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-c.o.c.k, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-b.u.t.ter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!...

I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

KORE

Yea, she hath pa.s.sed hereby, and blessed the sheaves, And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms, And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.

Yea, she hath pa.s.sed with poppies in her arms, Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist, And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes, And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep, With small b.r.e.a.s.t.s lifted up in stress of sighs, She pa.s.sed, as shadows pa.s.s, among the sheep; While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams; There was no sound amid the sacred boughs.

Nor any mournful music in her streams: Only I saw the shadow on her brows, Only I knew her for the yearly slain, And wept, and weep until she come again.

Frederic Manning [18 --

OLD OCTOBER

Hail, old October, bright and chill, First freedman from the summer sun!

Spice high the bowl, and drink your fill!

Thank heaven, at last the summer's done!

Come, friend, my fire is burning bright, A fire's no longer out of place, How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,) It looks white winter in the face.

You've been to ”Richard” Ah! you've seen A n.o.ble play: I'm glad you went; But what on earth does Shakespeare mean By ”winter of our discontent?”

Be mine the tree that feeds the fire!

Be mine the sun knows when to set!

Be mine the months when friends desire To turn in here from cold and wet!