The insolent sun that all day hid
In gray, and deigned but meagre share
Of light and fire, now shows its head
Level through the crimson air,
And bares what one had not observed,
Damned to bend above the work
Compelled: the tricky year has swerved
To latter autumn; signals lurk,
And then flash boldly. Sleepy now
Are fence-row, furrow, pasture, lane.
The northern hills denuded prow
Smoulders in terminal disdain
Of such misapprehension—spare
Expression of the naked shock,—
Be stony: now but stays to fare
Briefly, till can latch and lock
The last door—the task done,
And consequently no farewell,
Save wave aside the insolent sun
And cross the final parallel.