It is golden, here on the hilltop,
Watching the sun-sweet day
Of the valley age in a splendor
Of fading loveliness--filled with
Smooth earth, crinkled leaves, twisted hay.
Rajah and Czar are looking too,
Both as alert to the tiny signs
Of a mouse chase as I am
To the beauty of an October evening,
To the balm of apricot-scented wind and sticky pines.
The light over the friendly valley
Is so gentle, breathing its soft words
Over rooted mountains and straight,
Slim grasses erect in taught comfort,
Slipping small bright seeds to the birds.
The moon, coyly glowing her silver
Smile, rises in the dim, intricate
Coolness of the muscled oak boughs,
She is an evening soul in palest crepe.
Perfect before violet skies, still lit.
F. M. G.
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