152 



that branching road- side walnut. All its 

 leaves are pale gold. So many strew the 

 earth beneath that you see the tracery of 

 trunk and boughs. The more clearly that 

 poison-ivy clothes them as with a garment, 

 and all its leaves are the fine ruby crimson 

 that some mystics make the true color of 

 life. One who is fanciful might look, and 

 easily persuade him that he saw here a soul 

 of fire burning through a golden shell. 

 Blackbirds, though, have no eyrie fairer. A 

 full hundred of them perch amid the red 

 and yellow, and shatter the sweet silence 

 with jarring cries. They know, these small 

 creatures, that growth is past, fruition at 

 hand. Before the garnering is ended they 

 will wing away, nor be seen again till a new 

 summer shall blush along the hills. 



