When poppies in the garden bleed, And coreopsis goes to seed, And pansies, blossoming past their prime, Grow small and smaller all the time, When on the mown field, shrunk and dry, Brown dock and purple thistle lie, And smoke from forest fires at noon Can make the sun appear the moon, When apple seeds, all white before, Begin to darken in the core, I know that summer, scarcely here, Is gone until another year. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY A LATE WALK When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of the withered weeds Is sadder than any words. A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rustling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. ROBERT FROST COLOR NOTES The brown of fallen leaves, The duller brown Of withered moss Stubble and bared sheaves, And pale light filtering down The fields across. The gray of slender trees, The softer gray Of melting skies. What sobering ecstasies One drinks on such a day With chastened eyes! CHARLES WHARTON STORK THE GOLDEN BOWL I stand upon the broad and rounded summit Of a high hill In the full golden flood of an October day Nearing to twilight. Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes. Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, Nearer a hawthorn tree Drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green grass. I stand with head thrown back, Seeing and breathing deep, My arms stretched out, in my two hands I hold a golden bowl. Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow lustre of its hollow sphere, Fruits like great gems, A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, A cluster of grapes-- Amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, And on them lies a rose. Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul, Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, Topped with the rosy spray of grace, A rose, As though dropped to me from the sky above, A crowning thing, Love, I lift and hold you out, An offering, And close my eyes. MARY MCMILLAN THE AUTUMN ROSE