The Pumpkins In The Corn

Amber and blue, the smoke behind the hill,
Where in the glow fades out the morning star,
Curtains the autumn cornfield, sloped afar,
And strikes an acrid savour on the chill.
The hilltop fence shines saffron o’er the still
Unbending ranks of bunched and bleaching corn,
And every pallid stalk is crisp with morn,
Crisp with the silver autumn morns distil.
Purple the narrowing alleys stretched between
The spectral shocks, a purple harsh and cold,
But spotted, where the gadding pumpkins run,
With bursts of blaze that startle the serene
Like sudden voices,—globes of orange bold,
Elate to mimic the unrisen sun.