NOW is the time of thinned and reddened leaves, Of smoke up-curling from the roadside fire, And sun grown golden warm on field and mire Of rain-swept country lanes. And now with sheaves Piled up at last, and haystacks to the eaves, The laborer of summer takes his hire And so departs, knowing no more desire Save for the rest his quiet soul perceives. But you and I have earned no sum of gold For all our striving; nor do we seek rest And quietness, when all this glory fades. Only we hope that as the year grows old Our joy change not, nor rising, find its crest, When autumn wanes in dark dismantled glades. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POSTHUMOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AND SO, I THINK DIOGENES by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GLASS HOUSES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON SPAIN IN AMERICA by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE DIORAMA PAINTER AT THE MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY by KAREN SWENSON |