Withered my roses will be,
And my leaves will fall from the tree,
And the winds will moan--will moan--
And I shall be overthrown!
Oh, it makes me pensive and sad,
As I view thee, dying leaf,
And sorrow rends my heart,
And sighs afford relief.”
“Melindy wrote that in half an hour, Mr. Howard,” said the admiring Ichabod. “I timed her. I never knew her to do up a poem so quick before. Generally she has to stop a long time between the verses, and rolls her eyes, and bites the end of her pen-handle; but this time she wrote it off like two-forty.”
“Because I gave my heart to it, Ichabod,” explained his sister. “The lines seemed to flow right from my pen.”