I

Morning

The hoar frost crisps beneath the feet; And, sparkling in the morning’s strength, The fence, along its straggling length, Gleams as if wrought of virgin sleet.

On broom-sedge fields and sassafras Neglectfully the dim wind lifts The dead leaves; and around me drifts The milkweed, shaken from the grass.

Reluctantly and one by one The useless leaves drift slowly down; And, seen through woodland vistas, brown The nut-tree patters in the sun.

Where pools the brook beneath its fall With scales of ice its edge is bound; And on the pebbles scattered round The ooze is frozen; each a ball,

It seems, of crystal fallen there. And now the wind sweeps through the wood With sighings, and the solitude Seems shaken with a mighty care.

Decay and melancholy drape The near-by hills in mysteries Of mist, through which the rocks and trees Loom, hazy, each a phantom shape.

To sullenness the surly crow All his derisive being yields, And o’er the barren stubble-fields Flaps, cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.