We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Like uncombed urchin suns they blaze along
The public border of this autumn garden;
Their sallow, bronze and golden faces harden
Against the coming frost, as keen gusts throng
The dusk, scattering the frail evensong
Of some late robin. Sidling the dew comes
Upon them—grave-gay last chrysanthemums—
As, at a parting, tears betray the strong.

Why does he linger so intently gazing
Upon them, this last straggler in the park—
Has he not heard the keeper’s closing bell?
I wish I had not seen his sere hand raising
In an intolerable gesture of farewell,

As our paths cross in the autumnal dark.