Poetry
Autumn Hill-side
RECEIVE, I beg of you, these flowers I bring, The gleanings of my late October garden, An open hillside interlaced with streams, And mountains rising high and blue around.
First come white ladies' tresses, haunting sweet, Then goldenrod in bloom, its fruit close by, The ripe brown seeds winged with a pale grey down; Late clover, too, both pink and that deep red Most loved by yellow butterflies that cling And sip and flit, scores of them in this field.
White violets still bloom on, timid and quiet, Cold everlasting and wild clematis That peeps with bright brown eyes, to laugh at us Through tangle of pale silken threads.
Still faithful are forget-me-not and heal-all To streams that wind their way down from the heights.
Around my garden other hills rise slowly Aglow with golden birch and poplar, Ablaze with gaudy flaming maple, And dark about them, like a Kreighoff picture, Tall pine and spruce, cedar and tamarack.
FRANCES R. ANGUS.
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