———
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
———
Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more
The golden mist of waning Autumn lies;
The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore,
And phantom isles are floating in the skies.
They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand
Hushes, expectant, for thy lingering tread;
The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair;