The moon floats grandly up through rose to blue— A huge gold disk topping that golden hill Of corn and peering down this golden lane Of maples that will drop their leaves with chill, Crisp patter all night long among my flowers. I shall not mind: I am gathering in the few That still have color. This two week's strain— This nightly fear of killing frost is gone. The reds and orange of the zinnia hedge, The asters' purples, ambers, and gamboge Of the nasturtiums here along the hedge, Are all, to-day, a limp and crinkled brown: But since they are gone, there is no more to fear. At last, I am relaxed and can hold dear The clear, cold wonder of the icy stars, The splendor of this great, Leaf-falling Moon, The loveliness of creeping storm that bars The saffron east with clouds. My garden's grace Is that of her who looks toward the westering sun With peace. Having brought life to birth with face Of daily courage, having threshed the heart From sharply-bearded grain, she stands apart, Content that from this savage, losing strife With cold and death comes more abundant life. |