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 George Douglas Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-autumn-thistles/
