When in these golden hours

The day dawns honey-bright

And down we stroll the misty paths

Slow ripening in the light

Of second flush, of sodden roses,

Of dewy maple leaves,

We pluck the meadow of autumn lilies

And berries from the trees.

We sit in the wonder of too-soft days,

Listening for summer's parting sighs,

And drink in the sweetness

of the new-mown morning

And lie under whippoorwill skies.

 Deborah A. Bennett