Pale aspens mid the firs' dark tents;
Wood smoke's drifting haze;
Sumac red along the fence . . .
These make autumn days.
Haystacks in the meadow where
A brook's turned amber in the sun;
A touch of frost as mellow days
Grow shorter, one by one.
Cobwebs strong, predicting cold,
Shine like copper wire;
And sunlight spilling treetop gold
That sets the woods on fire