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O golden month, how high thy gold is heaped! The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung On wands, the chestnut's yellow penance-tongue, To every wind its harvest-challenge, In yellow still lie fields where wheat was reaped, And yellow still the corn-sheaves stacked among The yellow gourds which from the earth have wrung Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped the purple grape, Last thing to ripen, late, by very reason of its precious cost. O heart, remember, vintages are lost, If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. Think while thou sun'st thyself, in joy's estate, Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost.
