Give my love to Mrs. Ripley and the Archon, and to the two Charleses, and believe me, as always, your friend,
G.W.C.
On the next page I write a little song, which you shall print if you think it worth the space. Nameless and dateless if you please.
AUTUMN SONG
The gold corn in the field
And the asters in the meadow,
And the heavy clouds that yield
To the hills a crown of shadow,
Mark the ending of the Summer,
And the Autumn coming in,
A crimson-eyed new-comer,
Whose voice is cold and thin,
As he whispers to the flowers,
"Lo, all this time is ours."
I remember, long ago,
When the soft June days were wasted,
That the Autumn and the snow
In the after-heats were tasted;
For the sultry August weather
Burned the freshness from the trees,
And the woods and I, together,
Mourned the Winter, that must freeze
The silver singing streams
Which fed our Summer dreams.
Through the yellow afternoon
Rolls the wagon harvest-laden,
And beneath the harvest moon
At the husking sings the maiden;
While without the winds are flowing
Like long aerial waves,
And their scythe-sharp breath is mowing
The flowers upon the graves.
When the husking is all o'er
The maiden sings no more.
To ——
Thy spirit was a flexile harp, whereon
The moonlight fell like delicatest air,
Thro' thee its beauty flowing into tone
Which charmed the silence with a sound as rare.
Thou peaceful maid! the music then I heard,
Whose influence had moulded thy soft eyes
To their deep tone of tenderness: O! bird,
Whose life is fed with thine own melodies.