Johnnie and I, in our Sunday hats, Went to the city and looked at flats, Turned our backs on a glory road Where the wine-dark oak and the dogwood showed Mosaic pattern of red and bronze Through a leafy whispering as Nature cons Her final lines ere The Prompter calls And the play is done and the curtain falls. Never an autumn seems the same Though the pattern lies in lines of gold, Though the same swamp maple spills its flame Of youth in vain on the hemlocks old. Deeds like this and De Good Lawd must Repent Him He made man out o' dust. To waste His priceless gift of a day Of Indian Summer this witless way. To sell our hearts down the city river, Our glad free hearts that the country knows, To hear through our winter sleep the shiver Of woodland snowfall, "snow on snow." Out on our hilltop the air is bonny, And we shut-in in a city flat Just for that "handful of silver" for Johnnie, Just for that "riband" to put in my hat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VIRTUE [OR, VERTUE] by GEORGE HERBERT ON KEATS, WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB SHOULD BE INSCRIBED: by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY JUNGLE by WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG THE WORD by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS LILIES: 4. BLOSSOMS ABOVE A TOMB by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) SHREWSBURY NIGHT by CHARLES WARE BORDEN |