  The late light falls across the floor, Turned amber from a yellow tree,— And there are yellow cups for four, And lemon for the tea. The maples, with a million flames, Have lit the golden afternoon, An ambient radiance that shames The ineffective moon.... Till dull and smoky greys return, Quenching the street with chills and damps— Leaving these asters where they burn, Mellow like evening lamps. |
|
