“The Out-of-Door World in Autumn”^[1]

The cottonwoods that fringe
The streamlets take the tinge;
Through opal haze the sumac bush is burning;
The lazy zephyrs lisp
Through corn fields dry and crisp,
Their fond regrets for days no more returning.

The farm dog leaves the house
To flush the pinnate grouse;
The languid steers on blue-stem lawns are feeding;
The evening twilight sees
The rising Pleiades,
While autumn suns are to the south receding.

To me there comes no thrill
Of gloominess or chill,
As leaflets fade from branches elm or oaken;
As lifelessly they hang,
To me there comes no pang;
To me no grief the falling leaves betoken.

As summer’s floral gems
Bequeath us withered stems,
And autumn-shattered relics dry and umber:
So do these lives of ours,
Like summer leaves and flowers,
Flourish apace, and in their ripeness slumber.