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.