The Autumn Thistles

The morning sky is white with mist, the earth White with the inspiration of the dew. The harvest light is on the hills anew, And cheer in the grave acres' fruitful girth. Only in this high pasture is there dearth, Where the gray thistles crowd in ranks austere, As if the sod, close-cropt for many a year, Brought only bane and bitterness to birth. But in the crisp air's amethystine wave How the harsh stalks are washed with radiance now, How gleams the harsh turf where the crickets lie Dew-freshened in their burnished armour brave! Since earth could not endure nor heaven allow Aught of unlovely in the morn's clear eye.