After the red leaf and the gold have gone, <br />Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rain <br />Bruised and discolored, when October's flame <br />Goes blue to guttering in the cusp, this land <br />Sinks deeper into silence, darker into shade. <br />There is a knowledge in the look of things, <br />The old hills hunch before the north wind blows. <br /> <br />Now I can see certain simplicities <br />In the darkening rust and tarnish of the time, <br />And say over the certain simplicities, <br />The running water and the standing stone, <br />The yellow haze of the willow and the black <br />Smoke of the elm, the silver, silent light <br />Where suddenly, readying toward nightfall, <br />The sumac's candelabrum darkly flames. <br />And I speak to you now with the land's voice, <br />It is the cold, wild land that says to you <br />A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things: <br />The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.<br /><br />Howard Nemerov<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-spell-before-winter/
