WHEN THE OAKS WEAR DAMSON 



Nothing is more inscrutable than a 

 sheep-nose. 



Fast above the indigo crests stir the 

 light clouds, harried by the west wind 

 whereon the hawk floats across the valley. 

 In the afternoon October's lover takes the 

 hill path, mica-gemmed, that leads be- 

 tween birches of the translucent yellow 

 leaf and maples still green but wearing 

 scarlet woodbine like a gypsy's sash. For 

 here the sunset lingers till the stars, though 

 from the valley's goblet evening has sipped 

 the waning sunlight like a clear amber 

 wine. But take at morning the path 

 through brown lowgrounds, or close along 

 the wood where frost sleeps late, for here 

 that flower of desire, the fringed gentian, 

 grows. Its blue is less mysterious and 

 deep than the closed gentian's, and yet 

 how many name it the cup of autumn 

 delight! 



In the woods where leafless boughs give 

 them blue sky at last are revealed in 

 quaint perfection the ferneries of the moss: 

 palm trees towering higher than a snail's 

 house, gallant green plumes with corne- 

 lians at the tip, vast tropical forests spread- 

 ing for long inches, gray trailing rivers 

 157] 



