AFTERMATH.
The perfumes fresh from the marshy meadows flown
Bring taste of the tide whose overflow is nearing.
Still the meadows are the mower has shorn,
Where thistles stood, and perfumes fled from the flowers
And the stubble stark where the summer's yield was borne
Now seemeth dead to the sun and the touch of showers.
From the empty barns have the hollow echoes fled;
The lofts are loaded deep with the grassy sweetness.
The grain ungarnered and ripe swings lazy head,
And all the corn is bursting with its greatness.
Leaning hay-ricks dark rise everywhere
Across the meadows and the waters looming.
The higher tides flood the marshes unaware,
Among strange ways and newer channels roaming.
September comes to the bare burnt places, and cools
With gentle touch and breath, a glad new-comer;
Refreshing the languorous lakes and the dying pools
Before the advent of the Indian summer.
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