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Where the woodland streamlets flow, Gushing down a rocky bed, Where the tasselled alders grow; Lightly meeting overhead, When the fullest August days Give the richness that they know, Then the wild clematis comes, With her wealth of tangled blooms. Reaching up and drooping low. But when Autumn days are here, And the woods of Autumn burn, Then her leaves are black and sere, Quick with early frosts to turn! As the golden Summer dies, So her silky green has fled, And the smoky clusters rise As from fires of sacrifice,-- Sacred incense to the dead! - Dora Read Goodale
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