Travail is over--Autumn calmly kneeling
In robes of flame before the harvest-shrine
Beholds her garnered largess of the vine
And root. Earth, weary, waits the silent healing
Of ermined-rest. Within the withered pod
October holds young April, dormant, clinging--
After my harvest-song, let me hear ringing
Of far-off bells of life nor mind the clod.
With beauty filmed throughout the years unreeling,
May I, all unafraid, see the design
Of earth and Heaven blend; with mellowed singing
Await the miracle of death ... and God.
