Propped boughs are heavy with apples,
Springtime quite forgotten.
Pears ripen yellow. The wasp
Knows where windfalls lie rotten.
Juices grow rich with sun.
These autumn days are still:
The glassy river reflects
Elm-gold up the hill,
And big white plumes of rushes.
Life is full of returns;
It isn't true that one never
Profits, never learns:
Something is gathered in,
Worth the lifting and stacking;
Apples roll through the graders,
The sheds are noisy with packing.

Surprises of the sun
From: Surprises of the sun