AUTUMN.
Autumn is dying, alas! Sweet Autumn is near to her death;
All through the night may be felt her languid scented breath
Coming and going in gasps long-drawn by the shivering trees,
Out on the misty moors, and down by the dew-drenched leas.
Autumn is dying, alas! Her face grows pallid and gray;
The healthy flush of her prime is momently fading away;
And her sunken cheeks are streaked with a feverish hectic red,
As she gathers the falling leaves, and piles them about her bed.
Autumn is dying, alas! Her bosom is rifled and bare;
Gone is the grain and the fruit, and the flowers out of her hair,
Whilst her faded garment of green is blown about in the lanes,
And her ancient lover, the Sun, looks coldly down on her pains.
Autumn is dying, alas! She lies forlorn and alone;
The little chorusing birds have a broken, unhappy tone
As they fly in a crowd to the hedge when the evening mists arise,
To curtain the bed of death, and shadow the closing eyes.
Autumn is dying, alas! But to-night the silent cloud,
Dropping great tears of rain, will come and make her a shroud,
Winding it this way and that, tenderly round and around,
Then catch her away in its arms from the damp, unwholesome ground.
Autumn is dead, alas! Why alas? All her labor is done,
Perfected, finished, complete, 'neath the wind and the rain and the sun;
All the earth is enriched—the garners of men run o'er;
There is food for man and beast, and the stranger that begs at the door.
Look to thy life, O man! Swiftly approaches the night;
Whatsoever thy hand finds to do, do it with all thy might.
Labor right on to the end: let thy works go forth abroad;
Then turn thy face to the sky, and enter the "joy of thy Lord."