TWO SIDES.
H, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past;
The singing-birds have gone;
The robin, from the maple-bough,
Who waked me every morn;
The bobolink that used to make
The meadow-grass with music shake;
The humming-bird that dipped his bill
In lily-cup and rose,—
Not one would stay; I only hear
The cawing of the crows.
The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear!
The dismal autumn days are here.
And all my pretty flowers are dead!
My roses and sweet-peas;
The hollyhocks, where, all the day,
There was a crowd of bees;
The lovely morning-glory vine,
That round my window used to twine;
The larkspur, with its horns of blue;
The sunflower proud and tall,—
That thief the Frost, so sly and still,
Has come and stolen all!
Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear!
The dreary autumn days are here.
The hives are full of honeycomb;
The barns are full of hay;
The bins are heaped with ripened grain,
That empty were in May;
The red and yellow apples now
Bend many a heavy orchard bough;
Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves,
The frost-grapes smell of musk;
The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps;
And, in its silver husk,
The corn now shows a golden ear;
Come! why be sorry autumn's here?
The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs;
The keen wind scatters down
Upon the grass, for eager hands,
The chestnuts ripe and brown;
The orange woods, the flame-red bowers,
Are brighter than the gayest flowers;
'Tis constant changes make the year:
Then why be sorry autumn's here?
MARIAN DOUGLAS.
