Autumn.
WHO is it that paints the woodlands
Like a gorgeous gown of gold;
Dropping, here and there, a ripple
Of vermilion in each fold?
Who is it that calls the robins
And the blackbirds into bands;
Pointing them with flaming fingers,
To the sunny, Southern lands?
What has scorched the tender blossoms?
In our yards they’re dying now.
Do you know who kissed the apple
Till it reddened on the bough?
Why so mute the little streamlet?
Down the hill it used to leap;
Now I faintly hear it sobbing—
Sobbing out like one in sleep.
Leaden clouds lay on the heavens,
Like a burden on the heart;
And the winds together whisper,
Sad as loved ones ere they part.
Then anon a dreamy dullness
Hovers over sky and earth;
Ah! my soul reflects the sadness,
And I seek my friendly hearth.
You who love the Indian summer,
So renowned by pen and art,
Go, and revel in the gloaming,
While so sadly pants my heart.
But I can not watch the leaflets,
On the whirlwind as they ride,
For just so a hectic river
Bore my darling from my side.
A Sister’s Love.
TO IDA.
SHE knelt beside her brother’s grave,
The day was near its close;
And where the cool, tall grasses wave,
She lay a fresh-cut rose.
Then, from a silver waiter near,
She drew a wreath of white,
Besprinkled with the twilight’s tear,
O’ershaded with the night,
And placed them on the green-kept mound.
I watched her kneeling there,
Her face bent on the sacred ground,
In attitude of prayer;
And while a bird sang soft his hymn,
Down-looking from above,
We saw unveiled a picture dim—
A statue true of love.
