  AGAINST the winter’s heav’n of white the blood Of earth runs very quick and hot to-day; A storm of fiery leaves are out at play Around the lingering sunset of the wood. Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood, Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay; The golden lane half dreaming picks its way Through ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood. O warm, outspoken earth, a little space Against thy beating heart my heart shall beat, A little while they twain shall bleed and burn, And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face, The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet, And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn. |
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