By An Autumn Stream

Now overhead,

Where the rivulet loiters and stops,

The bittersweet hangs from the tops

Of the alders and cherries

Its bunches of beautiful berries,

Orange and red.

And the snowbirds flee,

Tossing up on the far brown field,

Now flashing and now concealed,

Like fringes of spray

That vanish and gleam on the gray

Field of the sea.

Flickering light,

Come the last of the leaves down borne,

And patches of pale white corn

In the wind complain,

Like the slow rustle of rain

Noticed by night.

Withered and thinned,

The sentinel mullein looms,

With the pale gray shadowy plumes

Of the goldenrod;

And the milkweed opens its pod,

Tempting the wind.

Aloft on the hill,

A cloudrift opens and shines

Through a break in its gorget of pines,

And it dreams at my feet

In a sad, silvery sheet,

Utterly still.

All things that be

Seem plunged into silence, distraught,

By some stern, some necessitous thought:

It wraps and enthralls

Marsh, meadow, and forest; and falls

Also on me.