SUMMER PAUSES 



of the ironweed is turning umber. The 

 fruited sweetbrier shows rust. Fall's an- 

 cient tapestry, the browns of decay worked 

 over with carmine, olive, maroon, and 

 buff, is being hung, but where the blue 

 lobelia is clustered in the lowground sum- 

 mer pauses. A parting sun catches the 

 clear yellow of curtsying, transfigured 

 birch leaves, and looks back, waiting, to 

 give September's landscape a hesitant fare- v 

 well. It seems early to go. Pickerel- 

 weed is azure still. Among the green bogs 

 the fragrant lady's-tresses wear the white 

 timidity of April, and the three petals of 

 the enameled arrowhead flower are dusty 

 with gold. But seeds wrapped up in 

 brown are scattering. Remembrance 

 yields to prophecy. 



The harvesters of grain and grass have 

 gone, and the tinted stubble is full of 

 crickets and monotonous cicadas. Now 

 the crumbling furrow is folded back be- 

 hind the plow and corn knives are swinging 

 close to the solemn pumpkins, for in corn- 

 field, vineyard, and orchard and in the 

 squirrel's domain the last harvests of all 

 are hastening to ripeness as the sunset 

 chill gives warning of a disaster foretold 



[49] 



