||THE DRIVE TO BARRE
Storms of leaves, showers of leaves
Swirling before me to mark my way:
Showers of leaves, storms of leaves:
I’m driving to Barre today.
And the torn brown pennants of maple and elm
Are as dry as the cornfields’ withering sheaves,
For the autumn season is old.
But we enter November’s bitter realm
With treasure fit for a Viking’s helm
Though the wind is ever so cold,
For the woods are filled with gold.
The golden hoards of the white, white birch
And the coins that the aspen shivers away
Take a leaf’s short voyage of tilt and lurch
As I drive to Barre today.
But the oak stands fast in a steady glow
Of gilt that glimmers where ravens perch:
Let him keep the wolf at bay!
For autumn is hasty, and winter is slow
And will drag a tail of leaden snow
Through the April woods, wolf-grey,
That are golden in Barre today.
Where the oak has kept his aureate hue,
Cabins are many and castles are few:
They are cozy and much the same.
And the death of the corn is golden, too,
Shorn of its ears and as bright as hay,
While the hills stretch far beneath the blue,
Like slumbering bears, long tame.
And with snow on the hills, at the crest of fall,
In my seven-league boots, I can reach them all
When I’ve gone and spent my pay,
For I’m driving to Barre today.