Xviii

The flowers of the fall I seek: The purple aster,--like a gauze Of pearl,--beneath the nodding haws Or making gay each tangled creek: The hairy, small herb-Robert, lost,-- Yet seen,--among the weeds which crush Or crowd it, with its bluish blush; Its rough, low stalk stung red with frost.

Around the rail-fence, climbing up, The nightshade hangs rich berries down,-- Clusters of cochineal,--that drown The flowering bind-weed’s pendant cup: And where the boggy bottom sets Its burs as breastworks and as tents, Like bivouacking regiments, The cat-tails stack their bayonets.

From amaranth--in tree and flower-- To asphodel-in weed and bloom-- The season swings a magic loom Of sun and mist from hour to hour: In its wide warp it weaves the dyes Of morning’s brilliant blue and gray; And crimson through the weft of day Flings the wild woof of evening skies.