And there are yellow cups for four,

And lemon for the tea.

The maples, with a million flames,

Have lit the golden afternoon,

An ambient radiance that shames

The ineffective moon....

Till dull and smoky greys return,

Quenching the street with chills and damps—

Leaving these asters where they burn,

Mellow like evening lamps.

[11]

[11]

BATTLEFIELDS

Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth,

These hills that lift their many a naked scar,

There yet shall come the indomitable mirth

Of Springs that have remembered where they are.

The slow processions of sweet sun and rain

Will crown the changing seasons as they pass,

With healing and green fruit and swollen grain,

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