On The Hillside

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.