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Late Autumn
by
Joseph Horatio Chant


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The fields lie bare before me now,
The fruit is gathered in,
Not even seen a grazing cow,
Nor heard the blackbird's din.
The heath is brown, and ivy pale,
The woodbine berries red,
And withered leaves borne on the gale
Sink down on peaty bed.

At morn the fence was covered o'er
With a pale sheet of rime;
The earth was like a marble floor,
But now is turned to grime.
For Autumn rains are falling fast,
And swells the running brook;
The Indian Summer, too, is past;
For snowfall soon we look.


This poem is in the public domain.



Joseph Horatio Chant (1837 – 1928) was born in England, but moved to Canada with his parents as a toddler. An ordained minister, Joseph’s poetry often celebrates the beauty of the natural world.

 

 


Post New Comment:
KevinArnold:
Great find, Jayne.
Posted 12/07/2018 09:24 AM
cork:
I love that word "rime" a special kind of ice.
Posted 12/07/2018 08:29 AM
michael escoubas:
No matter the season, excellent poets look for and find the good! This poem starts my day off right.
Posted 12/07/2018 07:25 AM


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