THE LOOM OF AUTUMN 207 



the green malarial mist rises from the 

 dead vegetation, soaking and melting 

 away in the pond, where no current 

 washes the margin. Autumn's shuttle 

 falls from between her numbing fingers, 

 and the loomed cloth sleaves, as she 

 slips the leash of the white frost hound 

 and he glides through the meadows. 

 All night he runs, breathing on the 

 weeds as he passes, trampling the grass, 

 touching the mossy stones and the 

 tree bark, his breath remaining in 

 white crystals. He comes up and slips 

 through the garden, but his force is 

 spent, and he only sniffs at the helio- 

 tropes and stiff edgings of coleus, and 

 crushes the rank marrow vines. At 

 dawn the hoar lies thick, dandelion 

 rosettes gleam in the sunlight, and the 

 leaves ripen and scatter. 



After the first frost a golden lapse 

 follows, a pensive time between sleep- 



