It is not lucky to dream such stuff⁠— Dreaming men are haunted men. Though Wingate’s face looked lucky enough To any eye that had seen him then, Riding back through the Georgia Fall To the white-pillared porch of Wingate Hall. Fall of the possum, fall of the ’coon, And the lop-eared hound-dog baying the moon. Fall that is neither bitter nor swift But a brown girl bearing an idle gift, A brown seed-kernel that splits apart And shows the Summer yet in its heart, A smokiness so vague in the air You feel it rather than see it there, A brief, white rime on the red clay road And slow mules creaking a lazy load Through endless acres of afternoon, A pine-cone fire and a banjo-tune, And a julep mixed with a silver spoon.