These are my days, short-lived and fancy free . . .
As beauty blazes round each scarlet bend,
I stir through stillness of the autumn lanes,
Caring not what was or might have been.
Set adrift upon the curling gray
Of wood smoke through the russet country side,
I sense a sacred hush about the hills,
A tender yearning not to be denied.
Summer's gone and winter's yet to come,
This interlude between is mine alone.
A brown thrush sings . . . oh wayward heart of mine,
What care we if the flowers all be gone?
What magic, webs of silver frost can lend, . . .
And I a golden thing upon the wind.