Every grain I scatter free, an hundred-fold shall yield, till waveth like a golden sea
this dark and barren field. So, when Autumn cometh round, the golden heads bend
low, – nearer and nearer to the ground their royal beard doth flow. The graceful play,
a moment stopped, distance again unrolls, like silver balls that, softly dropped, ring
into golden bowls. My woman’s heart beats free of blame beneath the shelter of thy
charity, yet wearily upon my soul would weigh thy golden crown of unbought praise.
Though the great dome above thee curve cloudy and pale, the sunset lingers, throws
across a golden fleece, stretching on and on in peace. Then, in the hills of Scotland,
strange waterfalls fill pools, but no one sits there singing, combing golden hair. Pour
thy amber screen, thy golden sherry, whose hue divine is never sphered in the vine.
Lowell, Maria. The Poems of Maria Lowell. Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1907. https://archive.org/details/poemsofmarilowel00loweiala/page/n12/mode/1up