Classic Poem

It is October. Let us go.
It is the grand finale. Come——
let us not wait for the fall of the curtain.
I am weary of seeing curtains fall.

But look. The tragic chorus are now arrayed about the stage——
and there is Atropos at the center, making ready to utter her lines.

Look. Even the great vain mountains are making themselves ready.
They are using the lake as a mirror.
They are smeared with peroxide and rouge, and are searching for wrinkles.

Look. The stagehands are already setting the stage for another show.
They are bearing the pumpkins from the fields,
and are pulling down the stacks of beans.
They are ploughing the slopes.
They are closing their doors. Come.
Glance once more at the saddening gorgeousness, the last.
Then let us turn away.

Yet, look. There is a mountainside of maples in the yellow,
and another mountainside of maples in the scarlet.

Look. The meadow is a silken baize,
highly colored in tawn and green——
there, with design of hunters persuing a fox
followed by dogs that seem to speed on the air.
In the beech woods there is another baize,
a baize of linen in the crude, unbleached——
there, with design of scurrying chipmunks, broken ferns.
Beneath the pines there is still another baize,
a baize of closely woven hemp——
there, with design of deer, frightened, huddling together.

This is the closing scene. Now let us go——
before the lines of Atropos begin.