And the leaves are turning brown,—
Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets
For the vanished violets.
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here,
Anemone and hiding violet,
When April sang the spring song of the year.
Now all is changed; the autumn day is wet
With clouds blown from the west, and vapors fold
Over the dripping woods and vacant wold.