GOLDEN month! How high thy gold is heaped!The yellow birch-leaves like bright coins strungOn wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongueTo every wind its harvest challenge. SteepedIn yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked amongThe yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrungHer utmost gold. To highest boughs have leapedThe purple grape—last thing to ripen, lateBy very reason of its precious cost.O Heart, remember, vintages are lostIf grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!
SEPTEMBER
"O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strungOn wands."
GOLDEN month! How high thy gold is heaped!The yellow birch-leaves like bright coins strungOn wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongueTo every wind its harvest challenge. SteepedIn yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked amongThe yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrungHer utmost gold. To highest boughs have leapedThe purple grape—last thing to ripen, lateBy very reason of its precious cost.O Heart, remember, vintages are lostIf grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!
