October Afternoon

Now the blue aster learns to rise and run

Ghost-pale before her little day is lost;

The slow bee fans stiff wings against the sun,

And the green mint droops purple-tipped with frost.

What god has shed this bitter blood on stone

That yesterday ran coral; what blind eye

Let these dark vines burn out their way alone

Under the amber torches of the sky?

The fires of death are sharp-but death is good:

Where brown leaves gather shadow I may see

The still rain shape round pools within a wood

To catch the stars, and hold my dreams for me.