Wild Garden

by Bliss Carman


 

FIRST FROST


 

Down from the hills with their glory around him
In scarlet and gold of a herald he comes,
Quiet as hill mist that steals through the passes,
The Indian Spirit ahead of his drums.

With heaven-blue asters and goldenrod leaning

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From lone sun-warm ledges high overhead,
To the thunder of falls and the chorus of rivers
He comes to the lowlands with pride in his tread.

The magic the Masters of Silence have taught him,
The power by Council of Summits conferred,

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The spell of elation, with beauty’s bewitchment,
He brings to illumine the infinite word.

From Hills of the Sky he has summoned his cohorts
To march with the colors of Autumn unfurled
Where plains in the haze of the Indian Summer

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Lie waiting his touch to emblazon their world.

The settlements waken with morning to wonder
At shining encampments o’er hillside and dale.
Arrived over night to enhearten the dreary—
The Legions of Glory have taken the trail.

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