The Philosopher

Alva N. Turner

He looked at the wooded hills
Repainted by the magic of the frost-brush,
Till his soul sensed the long silence of nonentity.
And he said:
“Death is a beautiful color.”

He left the concrete walk
To let his feet feel the yellow crispness
Of the newly fallen leaves
From the long line of the maple shade.
And he said:
“The new-fallen leaf,
Loved by the vagrancy of the autumn wind,
Is the sere grief of the green spring.”
His vision dreamed along the valley
Of devious, ranging hills,
Where stout shocks of fodder-corn
Were bursting into visible song,
And crowding pumpkins
Shouted in a chorus of lilting gold;
While the heavy listening orchard,
Thronging the amphitheatre
Of a happy old hillside,
Encored the singers with red applause—
Till he was conscious of the fullness of the autumn,
And the emptiness of the autumn wind.