FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE Silence and chill; the beeches stand aflare Upon the burnished footing of a glade, Another flickered by his side, who said, "Our ways are done, our battles at an end, Conquest nor overthrows, delights nor grieves, Let us lie down again as friend with friend Under the leaves." I heard no more. The branches dripped, the sun Lucy Lyttelton. A BEECH-WOOD IN OCTOBER Beneath the ancient beeches, cloth of gold For Autumn's regal passing has been laid. No bird sings here; and never light wind blows Among the beeches Autumn does not die So would I die, O beeches! When at last In peace and golden silence I would lie, Marian Warner Wildman. AUTUMN WOODS Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, Ah! 'twere a lot too blest Forever in thy colored shades to stray; And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. William Cullen Bryant. FADING AUTUMN Th' autumnal glories all have passed away; But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread, Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead; The naked trees stretch out their arms all day, And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend head As if for some new covering to pray. Come, Winter, then, and spread thy robe of white Above the desolation of this scene; And when the sun with gems shall make it bright, Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen Are silvered o'er with a serener light, We'll cease to sigh for summer's living green. Mrs. E. C. Kinney. THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE A Woodman whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon, One nightingale in an interfluous wood Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss Of the circumfluous waters, every sphere And every beast stretcht in its rugged cave, Which is its cradle-ever from below Of one serene and unapproachèd star, Itself how low, how high beyond all height Was awed into delight, and by the charm Girt as with an interminable zone, Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion Out of their dreams; harmony became love And so this man returned with axe and saw Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green With jagged leaves,-and from the forest tops |