The winds lie sick; no softest breath
Floats through the branches bare;
A silence as of coming death
Is growing in the air.

But what must fade can bear to fade—
Was born to meet the ill:
Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!
We sorrow, and are still.

There is no longer any heaven
To glorify our clouds;
The rising vapours downward driven
Come home in palls and shrouds.

The sun himself is ill bested
A heavenly sign to show;
His radiance, dimmed to glowing red,
Can hardly further go.

An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom,
Pervade the moveless air;
The year is sinking to its tomb,
And death is everywhere.

But while sad thoughts together creep,
Like bees too cold to sting,
God's children, in their beds asleep,
Are dreaming of the spring.

SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS.

O night, send up the harvest moon
To walk about the fields,
And make of midnight magic noon
On lonely tarns and wealds.