The morning sky is white with mist, the earth <br />White with the inspiration of the dew. <br />The harvest light is on the hills anew, <br />And cheer in the grave acres' fruitful girth. <br />Only in this high pasture is there dearth, <br />Where the gray thistles crowd in ranks austere, <br />As if the sod, close-cropt for many a year, <br />Brought only bane and bitterness to birth. <br /> <br />But in the crisp air's amethystine wave <br />How the harsh stalks are washed with radiance now, <br />How gleams the harsh turf where the crickets lie <br />Dew-freshened in their burnished armour brave! <br />Since earth could not endure nor heaven allow <br />Aught of unlovely in the morn's clear eye.<br /><br />Sir Charles GD Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-autumn-thistles-2/
