| |
| THE RUSSET leaves of the sycamore | |
| Lie at last on the valley floor— | |
| By the autumn wind swept to and fro | |
| Like ghosts in a tale of long ago. | |
| Shallow and dear the Carmel glides | 5 |
| Where the willows droop on its vine-walled sides. | |
| |
| The bracken-rust is red on the hill; | |
| The pines stand brooding, somber and still; | |
| Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray, | |
| Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray. | 10 |
| Sad November, lady of rain, | |
| Sends the goose-wedge over again. | |
| |
| Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth, | |
| Falls the sunlight over the earth; | |
| Kildees call from the fields where now | 15 |
| The banding blackbirds follow the plow; | |
| Rustling poplar and brittle weed | |
| Whisper low to the river-reed. | |
| |
| Days departing linger and sigh: | |
| Stars come soon to the quiet sky; | 20 |
| Buried voices, intimate, strange, | |
| Cry to body and soul of change; | |
| Beauty, eternal fugitive, | |
| Seeks the home that we cannot give. | |
| |
