Barberries

In scarlet clusters o'er the gray stone wallThe barberries lean in thin autumnal air;Just when the fields and garden plots are bare,And ere the green leaf takes the tint of fall,They come to make the eye a festival!Along the road for miles their torches flare.Ah, if your deep-sea coral were but rare(The damask rose might envy it withal)What bards had sung your praises long ago,Called you fine names in honey-worded books—The rosy tramps of turnpike and of lane,September's blushes, Ceres' lips aglow,Little Red-Ridinghoods, for your sweet looks!But your plebeian beauty is in vain.

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Poem
Christ's Anointing
October 31, 1901
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