The Miracle

Travail is over--Autumn calmly kneeling

In robes of flame before the harvest-shrine

Beholds her garnered largess of the vine

And root. Earth, weary, waits the silent healing

Of ermined-rest. Within the withered pod

October holds young April, dormant, clinging--

After my harvest-song, let me hear ringing

Of far-off bells of life nor mind the clod.

With beauty filmed throughout the years unreeling,

May I, all unafraid, see the design

Of earth and Heaven blend; with mellowed singing

Await the miracle of death ... and God.