November Sunset

Up from Broad River to the Wilton hills The valley lies in late November now, Flooded with purple twilight warm as wine. Northward the woods lie far and wide outspread In their wild peace, their gray austerity Bathed in the ash of autumn's passing glow— The mellow consolation of the year More mystical than all of summer's pride. Upon the western ridge, where the trees stand In silhouette against a cold green light, The scarlet sun goes down in amethyst, His day accomplished and the solemn hour Of his departure lit with sacred fires That flush the sky with a supernal mauve.