HURD like the wild grapes in their yellowing bowers,
Like these you are children of no fervid skies,
Yet wear the deep rich color of hot Julys,
Of days when the cattle pant, the blue storm lowers.
But now, in the mellow lull of dreamy hours,
Or when to its random bourne the red leaf flies,
Your stars, in delicate clusters, gently rise
On the autumn’s lovely firmament of flowers!
You are bathed in dying summer’s purple haze,
Yet rigorous breezes to your blooms are dear,
And silvery glimmers of cold sunset lights;
And where you group in sweet fortuitous ways,
To watch your feathery beauty is to hear
The plaintive katydid plead through sharp moist nights!
Edgar Fawcett.