ON THE HILLSIDE

By Francis Sherman

October's peace hath fallen on everything.

In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,

With red and purple yet the heavens thrill —

The passing of the sun remembering.

A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,

( In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will! )

Below, the little city lieth still;

And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.

Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,

The cattle wander homeward slowly now;

In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.

Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;

The maples will be desolate by morn.

The last word of the summer hath been said.