Purple o'er the tree tops
Wild grapes sprawl;
In the golden silence
Few birds call:
Heavy-laden Summer
Ripens into Fall.

Weary with the seed pods
Droop the hollyhocks;
Up and down the wide miles,
Corn in shocks;
Silent is the Wheat Mother,
And her merry flocks.

Go no more a-marching
Unto fairy drums.
Hark! Is it the footfall
Of the One who comes?
Silence—save the dropping
Of the purple plums!

Patient, stricken Summer
Feels the Odic Fires,
Awful in her ripe domes,
Mystic in her spires.
In a holy sadness
Fruit the Spring desires.

Last of all the awe-moons,
Three times three,
Glimmers down the sun-track
Slenderly—
Omen of the Wonder
Soon to be.

Does the darkness listen
For a shout of Doom?
Hist! Was it a thin voice
Crying from a womb?
Silence—save a dry leaf's
Whisper down the gloom.