O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped! br The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung br On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue br To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped br In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; br And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among br The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung br Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped br The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late br By very reason of its precious cost. br O Heart, remember, vintages are lost br If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.