Part 9 (2/2)

A LATE WALK

When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of the withered weeds Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rustling down.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

ROBERT FROST

COLOR NOTES

The brown of fallen leaves, The duller brown Of withered moss Stubble and bared sheaves, And pale light filtering down The fields across.

The gray of slender trees, The softer gray Of melting skies.

What sobering ecstasies One drinks on such a day With chastened eyes!

CHARLES WHARTON STORK

THE GOLDEN BOWL

I stand upon the broad and rounded summit Of a high hill In the full golden flood of an October day Nearing to twilight.

Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes.

Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, Nearer a hawthorn tree Drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green gra.s.s.

I stand with head thrown back, Seeing and breathing deep, My arms stretched out, in my two hands I hold a golden bowl.

Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow l.u.s.tre of its hollow sphere, Fruits like great gems, A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, A cl.u.s.ter of grapes-- Amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, And on them lies a rose.

Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul, Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, Topped with the rosy spray of grace, A rose, As though dropped to me from the sky above, A crowning thing, Love, I lift and hold you out, An offering, And close my eyes.

MARY MCMILLAN

THE AUTUMN ROSE

A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose, Haunting my garden that you once loved well: Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close, And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell Your loveliness was fairer than a dream!

But now your pride of beauty is all gone, And like some poor sad penitent you seem, Whose drooping head but hides a visage wan And wasted by the coldness of the world.

Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, Within your petals lies a tear impearled; I hear you to my garden say good-bye.

A sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow Hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow?

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

INDIAN SUMMER

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