MICHAELMAS by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON

WE had not thought the sky could burn so blue!
For Summer hath her storms, and Spring her veils;
But now a crystal fire seems burning through
Yon vault of wide turquoise no vapour pales.

The summer green is changed and manifold:
The cherries and the maples flame in rose,
The beechwood studs the hill with rusty gold,
And yellow bend the trembling poplar-rows.

And all the roses that we mourned for dead
Burst out in flower and bloom from every stalk;
The purple asters burn amid the red,
And starry dahlias frame the terrace-walk.

Bright apples bow the trees beyond the field,
The meadow-saffron springs among the grass;
For every branch now bears its ripened yield,
For every floweret feels the summer pass;

For Venus dances in a frosty sky
At twilight o'er the tawny mountain tops;
For all things rage and revel ere they die,
And know the hour is near when summer stops.

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