The winged motes of sound,
That sing the "Harvest Home"
Of ripe Autumn in the gloam
Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river,
Sang that day their best endeavor.
I said: "In what sweet place
Shall we meet face to face,
Her loveliest self to see—
Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites,
And learn the mystery