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THE crimson sumac lims the purple bills
And in the valleys gleams the bundled grain;
All down the wooded way the blood-red glows
Where the queen Autumn's hectic cheek has lain;
And where her hand has touched the wild woodbine
Its leaves are tipped with brilliant, scarlet stain.
Far in the distance yellow, burnished clouds
Of maple rain a golden shower-bath;
All through the stubble glints the tender green
Of grass, the meadow's free-will aftermath;
A whirling dust cloud hazes toward the sun
Where cattle straggle down a beaten path.
Down through its golden bars the great sun slips;
The still, brief twilight hastens, over-soon;
A faint flush heralds from the eastern hills
And lo!—she comes, the glorious Autumn moon.
She comes—and the sweet, radiant silver night
Supplants the mellow golden afternoon.
—Grace G. Crowell.
Western, Field. Western Field - Sportsmans Magazine of the West. San Francisco: Western Field, 1907.
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