IN AUTUMNTIDE.

IN AUTUMNTIDE.
308.1

The apple seeds are black at core;
The linden leaves, like fairy ore.
Shed the effulgence of their gold,
Paving the pathways green before.

More plaintive grows the thrush’s pipe;
The quince’s cheek is yellow ripe;
And the smooth pallor of the pear
Reveals, like dawn, a russet stripe.

The minstrel wind behind the hill
Above its strings is never still;
Autumn through all the brooding land
Works the rich wonder of its will.

As in a necromancer’s glass,
We watch the radiant pageant pass,
Wood waving banner back to wood
Across the severing seas of grass.

Forgetful what the hours presage,
We feel that we have plucked a page
From the untroubled Book of Dream-
A leaf from out the Golden Age!
-Clinton Scollard