Up from Broad River to the Wilton hills
The valley lies in late November now,
Flooded with purple twilight warm as wine.
Northward the woods lie far and wide outspread
In their wild peace their gray austerity
Bathed in the ash of autumn's passing glow--
The mellow consolation of the year
More mystical than all of summer's pride.
Upon the western ridge, where the trees stand
In silhouette against a cold green light,
The scarlet sun goes down in amethyst,
This day accomplished and the solemn hour
Of his departure lit with sacred fires
That flush the sky with a supernal mauve.

 ~ William Bliss Carman

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