All day over the tangled mass, The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass. The smoke hangs white in the broken rice. The feathers drift in the water-grass. The Scarlet Trails Crimson and gold in the paling sky; The rampikes black where they tower on high,-- And we follow the trails in the early dawn Through the glades where the white frosts lie. Down where the flaming maples meet; Where the leaves are blood before our feet We follow the lure of the twisting paths While the air tastes thin and sweet Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew The long twin barrels are cold and blue; But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins, And our eyes and hands are true. Where the sun drifts down from overhead (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed), Rush of wings through the forest aisle-- And the leaves are a brighter red. Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh; Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die. There's blackened shell in the trampled fern When the white moon swims the sky. At the Year's End The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows. The last gray feather to southward goes. Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp, When the lonely north-wind blows. The harrow and sickle are laid away. The barns are warm with the scent of hay; While Death stalks free in the silent world, Through the gloom of a winter's day. In the creeping night the black winds cry. The daylight comes like a stifled sigh. The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke Crawls up to a grayer sky. Winter Winds Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds are laid on the back of the land, Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting the feet of the plain, Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe at the lift of the hand, And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore moan and sob in their pain. Never a sail on that sharp straight line that marks the steel of the sky; Never a wing flees in from death to crouch in the rattling reeds; In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines the frozen spume drives high; And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold on the tattered weeds. A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks of gold, With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists and the daisies topped with bees; And now the last of the year lies dead, the world walks bent, and old, And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps in from the iron seas. Dead Days The haws cling to the thorn, Shrivelled and red; The limbs long dead Clutch at a leaf long torn-- It taps all day on the spikes As the spume licks over the dikes. The reeds creak in the dawn By the dead pond; Dry tongues respond From grasses yellow and drawn; And ever scourged by the wind, The alders clatter and grind.