O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped! 
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung 
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue 
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped 
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; 
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among 
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung 
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped 
The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late 
By very reason of its precious cost. 
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost 
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. 
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, 
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!