IN AUTUMN.
The waves come galloping up the shore,
The trees are flinging their arms about.
All night I have heard the wind’s loud roar,
And the surf call back with angry shout.
And after the wind a grieving rain
Comes sighing and sobbing past my door,
“The summer flowers I seek in vain,
Is my work of love forever o’er?”
One day ago and a soft sun shone,