O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped
The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late
By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!
Her utmost gold is with the muse of love and nature. Nice work.
Fine sonnet on the beauty of gold growing on the fields with wine to be ready by the rich growth of grapes are wonderfully dealt with here!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful poem i like it. Thanks Helen