Brown leaves and other verses

BY ELLA STEVENS HARRIS
ALTAVISTA 16 ROCKLEDGE ROAD MONTCLAIR COPYRIGHT 1912 BY ELLA STEVENS HARRIS OSWALD PRESS, NEW YORK ONE HUNDRED COPIES OF THIS BOOK HAVE BEEN PRIVATELY PRINTED. THIS COPY IS NUMBER 68
From time to time, for many years, some of these verses have appeared in newspapers and periodicals. They are here collected at the request of friends.
E. S. H.
The language of the human heart, Nor tongue nor pen may tell; But other eyes look into ours, And understand us well.
No gift is worthy, my Beloved, Of what thou art to me; But these frail children of my love, I would bestow on thee.
The years will come, the years will go, As poets oft have sung; But Love is Life, and Life is Love, And Love, is ever young!


From the pipes of old Winter, has come a shrill blast, And upon the gray earth a pure mantle is cast. ’Tis a garment of snow-flakes come down from the skies And beneath it, in silence, the patient earth lies.
The moaning and rustling of dead leaves is past— The comforter came, they are sheltered at last. O, brown leaves of autumn! ’Tis a wise hand that leads, And he sends what is best, who best knoweth our needs. He gives and he takes, and in taking he gives: From life cometh death, and in dying we live. From mists of the river, the brooklet and sea This beautiful shroud has been woven, and ye Of its coming wist not, for from out the still air It as silently fell as an answer to prayer. O, could ye but creep from your coverlet white And visit your home, a most wonderful sight Would gladden your hearts, for the sun met the snow, And the frost followed on with his cold breath, and lo! Your home is a palace of crystal more bright Than Aladdin beheld with his magical light.
Ye glow and ye fade—but as wondrous to me Is the leaf on the ground as the leaf on the tree: For links in time’s chain clasp eternity fast And the chain becomes endless. Ever the past Pays its debt to the future, leaf-life, or man’s, So perfect the system that surely no hands But of Infinite wisdom and love could be The author of such an unerring decree. Who knoweth the end? Little leaflets, not we! Enough for ourselves, as we hang on life’s tree, To gather the sunshine and freely bestow Our shade to the weary and faint ones below. And when we grow brown, as, surely we must, The end will be glorious can we but trust That the Infinite love, which careth for all, Forgets not the little brown leaves when they fall.