ST. MATTHEW
Matthew the Publican sits at the gate of September,
Counting the gold of the passing and vanishing year—
The gold that the Summer must pay with her tears and sighings—
The gold of the falling leaves.
The Lord goes by and, turning, says unto Matthew:
“Follow Me—follow Me down the long months into Winter,
“Follow Me—follow Me down through the fogs of November,
“When the coin of the year is spent and the trees are beggared,
“With never a golden leaf to drop at the gate—
“Follow Me.”
Matthew the Publican rises to follow his Lord;
But first he will make a feast at the gate of September—
He will make a feast for the sinners and Saints of the year.
The way is long and the Autumn paths are dreary,
So before he treads the dark road into the rain
He makes a great golden feast, the last feast of Summer,
And he throws his golden treasury over the fields.
The dying, fluttering, shimmering leaves of September,
The last of the daisies and coltsfoot and dandelions,
Are Matthew the Publican’s treasure, his gold and silver,
Which he throws at his Master’s feet, the feet he must follow
Down, down the Autumn, into the fogs—
To the end of the year.