The Fall Wind
By John Stuart Thompson
The wind has stalked adown the garden path,
And blown the lights of all the poor flowers out;
From maple wood I hear his stormy shout;
The russet leaves take flight before his wrath;
In stubble fields and clover-aftermath,
The wreckage of the year is strewn around;
The mottled asters lie upon the ground.
Of all the bloom, the tyrant north wind hath
Left only golden-rod, in saffron rows,—
And these, with bulging cheeks, he blows and blows,
Until they glow, and mingle with the west,
When setting suns lean low upon the land,
And songless birds, in cheerless plumage dressed.
Wing south or somewhere; mute, discouraged band.