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.