Its bunches of beautiful berries,

Orange and red.

[43]

And the snowbirds flee,

Tossing up on the far brown field,

Now flashing and now concealed,

Like fringes of spray

That vanish and gleam on the gray

Field of the sea.

Flickering light,

Come the last of the leaves down borne,

And patches of pale white corn

In the wind complain,

Like the slow rustle of rain

Noticed by night.

Withered and thinned,

The sentinel mullein looms,

With the pale gray shadowy plumes

Of the goldenrod;

And the milkweed opens its pod,

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