The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,

Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,

The paths of skimming swallows interlace.

Already in the outland wilderness

The forests echo with unwonted dins;

In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press

Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins.

Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines

Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,

Already in the frost-clear morns awake

The crash and thunder of the falling pines.

Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,

Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,

By many a loft and busy granary,

The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;

There the tanned farmers labor without slack,

Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,

Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,

Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.

[37]

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