CLEAR as the dew it kindles on the spray
Across the shadows of each shelving lawn,
The rising sun, with low and level ray
Scatters the cold, gray phantoms of the dawn.
Like ghosts they flee, like dreams expire
Within the elemental fire
Of our first calm October day.
A day all zenith; the enclosing air,
Like to the lens of a vast telescope,
Shows the enameled globe, which now doth wear
Its gayest motley; every jutting slope
And quiet spire appears both far and near,
Seen through the splendor of the atmosphere.
Something Elysian,-a faint tang of joy,-
Breathes from the moisture of the open field,
Recalling Spring, yet Spring with no alloy
Of heartache, such as hovers on the view
Of things in promise. Here is harvest-yield;
Old Earth hath done her best and can no further do.
The yellowing pages of Earth’s ledger lie,
In new-cropped acres, open to the sky;
A text that all may understand,
With margins where wild vines expand
In crimson revelry.
Beyond the valley lies a ledge
Of rocky pasture and a tier
Of hemlock and of juniper;
And close to the embattled edge,-
Their roots embedded in the stony stairs,-
The ag
(John Jay Chapman)
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