There is a quietness in autumn fields
to soothe the driven spirit, for it seems
These dowered lands, golden with ample yields,
Lie resting, having filled their April dreams.
These have upborne, like men, the bitter frost,
The furious lash of heaven, and in need
Panted for dark warm rain, thought summer lost,
Yet to fruition at last have borne their seed.
   So it may be with me - despite all stress,
All strange uncertain fears and curious pain,
Long winters of the heart, lost happiness,
I shall complete this mortal year, and gain
Some golden still September of the soul
Whose harvest-tide brings ripeness of the whole.