An Autumn Field

How rich and full in June’s all-perfectness
Was the lush grass which, in this ample field,
Grew riotously glad! How prodigal the yield
Of every flower whose absence had made less
The bounteous whole! Now, where that sweet excess
Abounded, to itself has bareness sealed
The thriftless sods: reft, like a glorious shield
Of all its wrought and painted loveliness.
Yet not quite all; for here and there behold
A flower like those which made the summer sweet
Puts forth some meagre tint of red or gold,
To make the barrenness seem more complete.
Such overflow of life, such wealth of bliss;
Now for remembrance and endurance—this!