THE LOOM OF AUTUMN 21 7 



upon the heliotropes. The frozen sap 

 between the bark and stem, expanded 

 by the sun, turning into crystals the 

 second night, curving in the thread- 

 like shapes of its former channels, 

 covers the plants with gypsum flowers. 



The spell is breaking, Autumn's gar- 

 ish robe frays and tears, and, floating 

 away, a fragment catches here and 

 there, colouring the sere fields. Then 

 the East Wind whirls his trembling 

 mate up through the webless loom, 

 mocking its emptiness, and a gypsy 

 child, gathering fagots, binds the 

 warped shuttle in her pack. The mil- 

 ler rakes away the huddling dead leaves, 

 lest they should choke the flume, and, 

 heaping high, sets them ablaze. The 

 imprisoned gases mingle their opal- 

 escence with the smoke, and through 

 the flame appears the year's mirage 

 that we call Indian Summer. 



