Sonnet in Autumn

By Florence Boutwell

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    My autumn is not fields of lifelessness,

    Nor rotting piles of past-ripe summertime,

    Nor pasture streams, thick-clogged with watercress

    And dried up straw and leaves and dead brooklime.

    It could be that if I were one to think

    A withered thing is dead, I’d leave it so;

    But I like age that does not wince or shrink,

    That’s crisp and spry. And I like years that grow

    With neatness and a trim perennial stride.

    I’ve Fall-plowed all my land and cleared the brush

    Out of the shallow streams. And side by side

    In homemade bins lie piles of summer’s lush.

    Now as I watch the year grow autumn old,

    The only age I see is deepening gold.