EARLY NOVEMBER
O thesweetness of the jangleOf the sheep-bells, in the tangleOf the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!—Ah, the silence when it ceases!But the beauty of the fleeces,And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices!And beyond them, and the networkOf the dogwood, and the fretworkOf the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land,I can see the color showingWhere the winter-wheat is growing,With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.While among the many-seededTufts of russet weeds, unheeded,Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field;Their white feathers like the glossesOf the shining silver bossesThat adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield.In long loops from off the hedges,Trailing downward to the edgesOf the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound;Fairy clues that lead my eagerErrant fancy to beleaguerSome concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.Till the sun begins the lightingOf his western fires, that smitingThrough the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;An irradiating splendorThat transfigures all the slenderLittle leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!O, I know the year is going!Neither reaping-time nor sowingWill restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:Yet I cherish all their sweetnessIn the ripeness and completenessOf the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.
O thesweetness of the jangleOf the sheep-bells, in the tangleOf the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!—Ah, the silence when it ceases!But the beauty of the fleeces,And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices!And beyond them, and the networkOf the dogwood, and the fretworkOf the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land,I can see the color showingWhere the winter-wheat is growing,With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.While among the many-seededTufts of russet weeds, unheeded,Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field;Their white feathers like the glossesOf the shining silver bossesThat adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield.In long loops from off the hedges,Trailing downward to the edgesOf the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound;Fairy clues that lead my eagerErrant fancy to beleaguerSome concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.Till the sun begins the lightingOf his western fires, that smitingThrough the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;An irradiating splendorThat transfigures all the slenderLittle leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!O, I know the year is going!Neither reaping-time nor sowingWill restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:Yet I cherish all their sweetnessIn the ripeness and completenessOf the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.
O thesweetness of the jangleOf the sheep-bells, in the tangleOf the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!—Ah, the silence when it ceases!But the beauty of the fleeces,And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices!
O thesweetness of the jangle
Of the sheep-bells, in the tangle
Of the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!
—Ah, the silence when it ceases!
But the beauty of the fleeces,
And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices!
And beyond them, and the networkOf the dogwood, and the fretworkOf the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land,I can see the color showingWhere the winter-wheat is growing,With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.
And beyond them, and the network
Of the dogwood, and the fretwork
Of the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land,
I can see the color showing
Where the winter-wheat is growing,
With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.
While among the many-seededTufts of russet weeds, unheeded,Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field;Their white feathers like the glossesOf the shining silver bossesThat adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield.
While among the many-seeded
Tufts of russet weeds, unheeded,
Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field;
Their white feathers like the glosses
Of the shining silver bosses
That adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield.
In long loops from off the hedges,Trailing downward to the edgesOf the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound;Fairy clues that lead my eagerErrant fancy to beleaguerSome concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.
In long loops from off the hedges,
Trailing downward to the edges
Of the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound;
Fairy clues that lead my eager
Errant fancy to beleaguer
Some concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.
Till the sun begins the lightingOf his western fires, that smitingThrough the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;An irradiating splendorThat transfigures all the slenderLittle leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!
Till the sun begins the lighting
Of his western fires, that smiting
Through the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;
An irradiating splendor
That transfigures all the slender
Little leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!
O, I know the year is going!Neither reaping-time nor sowingWill restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:Yet I cherish all their sweetnessIn the ripeness and completenessOf the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.
O, I know the year is going!
Neither reaping-time nor sowing
Will restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:
Yet I cherish all their sweetness
In the ripeness and completeness
Of the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.