Ere the stout year be waxèd shrewd and old,
  And while the gain upon the well-piled
     stack
  Waits yet unthreshed, by every woodland
     track,
Low stream, and meadow, and wide waste
     out-rolled,
By every fence that skits the forest mould,
  Sudden and thick, as at the reaper's hail,
  They come, companions of the harvest,
     frail
Green forests yellowing upward into gold.
Lo, where yon shaft of level sunshine gleams
  Full on those pendent wreaths, those
     bounteous plumes
   So gracious and so golden!  Mark them
     well,
  The last and best from summer's empty
     looms,
Her benedicite, and dream of dreams,
    The fulness of her soul made visible.

 ~ Archibald Lampman

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