THE HUNTER’S MOON

October day drifts into night and now, Globing red gold upon a naked bough, The Hunter’s Moon climbs through a ragged larch, Swings out on Heaven and sweeps her steadfast arch Through cloudrack dim; while underneath there lie The darkling forests and the floods, and fly Leaves from the summer woods. They tinkle down Russet and sere, etiolate and brown, Blood-red and scarlet, auburn, silver, grey— Good millions, bearing wherewithal to pay Debt of the trees. The busy earthworms cold Draw in the yearly dues to rich the mould, Storing what tree-tops earned; and thus full round The cycle spins; for sure the sodden ground Is but a bank, that hoards to give again, Wherein the beetle and the mole and rain Balance their books beneath the Hunter’s Moon, While Nature budgets for another June.