I KNOW, and the sunset-angel knows, Painter nor palette could paint the rose, The bush that tall by the border grows And waves in the wind to-day! — Ruby and brown where the green has fled, Bronzed, and brightened with gold and red, Purple and amber, so lit and wed By the sun in the soft blue overhead And the light wind's careless sway, That the perfect bloom of its summer flowers Is poor to the wealth of these autumn hours, And the richest jewels of Asia's mines Are pale to the hues of its pendent vines And the tints of its topmost spray! |