harvest

such a harvest. harvest it was. as austin o'malley puts it, "happiness is the harvest of a quiet eye." :)

“A Corymbus for Autumn"

by Francis Thompson

How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?

Umbered juices,

And pulpèd oozes

Pappy out of the cherry-bruises,

Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden.

With hair that musters

In globèd clusters,

In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes,

Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden;

With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,

Like velvet pansies

Where through escapes

The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies;

With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes

Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,

Thy naked feet unsandalled;

With robe gold-tawny that does not veil

Feet where the red

Is meshed in the brown,

Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail.