Down from the north they wing their way. 
  Out of the east they cross the bay. 
  From north and east they’re steering home
  To the inland ponds at the close of day.

  Hid in the sea of reeds we lie,
  And watch the wild geese driving by;
  And listen to the plover’s piping,—­
  The gray snipe’s thin and lonely cry.

  All day over the tangled mass,
  The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass. 
  The smoke hangs white in the broken rice. 
  The feathers drift in the water-grass.

The Scarlet Trails

  Crimson and gold in the paling sky;
  The rampikes black where they tower on high,—­
  And we follow the trails in the early dawn
  Through the glades where the white frosts lie.

  Down where the flaming maples meet;
  Where the leaves are blood before our feet
  We follow the lure of the twisting paths
  While the air tastes thin and sweet

  Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew
  The long twin barrels are cold and blue;
  But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins,
  And our eyes and hands are true.

  Where the sun drifts down from overhead
  (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed),
  Rush of wings through the forest aisle—­
  And the leaves are a brighter red.

  Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh;
  Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die. 
  There’s blackened shell in the trampled fern
  When the white moon swims the sky.

At the Year’s End

  The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows. 
  The last gray feather to southward goes. 
  Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
  When the lonely north-wind blows.

  The harrow and sickle are laid away. 
  The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
  While Death stalks free in the silent world,
  Through the gloom of a winter’s day.

  In the creeping night the black winds cry. 
  The daylight comes like a stifled sigh. 
  The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
  Crawls up to a grayer sky.

Winter Winds

Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds
are laid on the back of the land,
Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting
the feet of the plain,
Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe
at the lift of the hand,
And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore
moan and sob in their pain.

Never a sail on that sharp straight line
that marks the steel of the sky;
Never a wing flees in from death to crouch
in the rattling reeds;
In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines
the frozen spume drives high;
And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold
on the tattered weeds.

A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks
of gold,
With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists
and the daisies topped with bees;
And now the last of the year lies dead,
the world walks bent, and old,
And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps
in from the iron seas.