Part 10 (1/2)

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the pa.s.sionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent.

The gra.s.shopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under the moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them.

SARA TEASDALE

”FROST TO-NIGHT”

Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ...

And, ”Child, take the shears and cut what you will.

Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still.”

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!

A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,--the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: ”Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ...”

Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

EDITH M. THOMAS

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen ...

With faint dry sound, Like steps of pa.s.sing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

ADELAIDE c.r.a.pSEY

THE SNOW-GARDENS

Like an empty stage The gardens are empty and cold; The marble terraces rise Like vases that hold no flowers; The lake is frozen, the fountain still; The marble walls and the seats Are useless and beautiful.

Ah, here Where the wind and the dusk and the snow are All is silent and white and sad!

Why do I think of you?

Why does your name remorselessly Strike through my heart?

Why does my soul awaken and shudder?

Why do I seem to hear Cries as lovely as music?

Surely you never came Into these pale snow-gardens; Surely you never stood Here in the twilight with me; Yet here I have lingered and dreamed Of a face as subtle as music, Of golden hair, and of eyes Like a child's ...

I have felt on my brow Your finger-tips, plaintive as music ...