Song of Thanksgiving

I walked through an orchard when Autumn was calling, Where the breath of the fruit-trees was stronger than wine, And each toss of the wind sent the golden leaves falling Like old coins stamped with an ancient design — And I felt that the spoils of the Summer were mine.

I drank from the wind as one quaffs from a flagon, And I caught at the leaves with a miser's quick hand, While my heart sang a song of the harvester's wagon Heaped high with the wealth of the bountiful land — With such joy and thanksgiving, no tongue could command.