Abigail at the Window

of the new house, humming in the October after-

glow, while she nurses Joseph, her eleventh child.

Fall, flaming thoughts! The day is done.

Foliage, bright as though the sun

Yet lingered dimly in the boughs

Or left his richnesses to drowse,

Withers and drifts through the grey dusk.

Green life is shriveled to the husk.

Unconquerable sleep at length

Drains the whole world of its strength.

Consciousness sinks to ebb-tide.

Delicious sleep, horizon-wide,

Draws down the leaves irresistibly.

Fall, flaming thoughts! Even in me

The cares, so proud in their first blowing,

Sink, hot gold in the cool eve glowing.

(Dusk of the day: dusk of the year.)

-And under my window I can hear

A bunch of small boys going home.

One shrills a tune upon a comb.

They invade each drift, to wade knee-deep,

Scattering each crisp and pungent heap

Ready for burning. What a noise!

Yet, between autumn dusks and boys

There is a harmony which seems

The resolution of thoughts and dreams

Into a music which appears

The answer to all one's hopes and fears.