Autumn

Now when the time of fruit and grain is come,

When apples hang above the orchard wall,

And from the tangle by the roadside stream

A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air,

Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan,

Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay

And tattered colors of the Orient,

Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills.

The woods of Wilton at her coming wear

Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand:

The maples glow with their Pompeian red,

The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold;

And while the crickets fife along her march,

Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.