s older than the oldest tale we tell,
This gift that guides her through such tricks as these,----
And my delight in watching her, as well.

She thinks not how this art with spoon and plate,
Is one with ancient women baking bread:
An epic heritance come down of late
To slender hands, and dear, delightful head,--
How Trojan housewives vie in serving me,
Where Mary sets the table things for tea.

AUTUMN TEA TIME

The late light falls across the floor,
Turned amber from a yellow tree,--
And there are yellow cups for four,
And lemon for the tea.

The maples, with a million flames,
Have lit the golden afternoon,
An ambient radiance that shames
The ineffective moon....

Till dull and smoky greys return,
Quenching the street with chills and damps--
Leaving these asters where they burn,
Mellow like evening lamps.

BATTLEFIELDS

Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth,
These hills that lift their many a naked scar,
There yet shall come the indomitable mirth
Of Springs that have remembered where they are.
The slow processions of sweet sun and rain
Will crown the changing seasons as they pass,
With healing and green fruit and swollen grain,
And banners of the gay and dauntless grass.

Here little paths will find their way again,
And here the patient cattle come to stand,
Until, grown half-incredulous, these men
Looking from doorways on the evening land,
Can scarcely think--so deep the quiet lies--
How all of this was ever otherwise.

ONE DAY IN AUTUMN

With all our going through this golden weather,
Where leaves have littered every forest way,
If there be lovers, they should be together:
For this is golden ... but the end is grey.
Beyond this shimmer where the bright leaves fall,
Behind this haze of silver shot with gold,
There is a greyness waiting for it all,--
A little longer ... and the world is old.

And never loneliness grew more and more,
As this that haunts these late October days,
With smoky twilights gathering at the door,
With grey mist clouding on familiar ways ...
And well for him who has another near,
When fires are lighted for the dying year.

AN OLD HOUSE AND GARDEN

After wet twilights, when the rain is done,
I think they walk these ways that knew their feet,