By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very
THE frost is out, and in the open fields,
And late within the woods, I marked his track;
The unwary flower his icy fingers feels,
And at their touch the crispëd leaf rolls back;—
Look, how the maple o’er a sea of green
Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red!
First struck of all the forest’s spreading screen,
Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead.
Go on: thy task is kindly meant by Him
Whose is each flower and richly covered bough;
And though the leaves hang dead on every limb,
Still will I praise his love, that early now
Has sent before this herald of decay
To bid me heed the approach of Winter’s sterner