AUTUMN.
How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood,
What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air;
A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depths of the silent wood,
And in my heart was crying the raven of despair,
Thrilling my being through with its bitter, bitter cry—
"It were better to die, it were better to die."
What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air;
A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depths of the silent wood,
And in my heart was crying the raven of despair,
Thrilling my being through with its bitter, bitter cry—
"It were better to die, it were better to die."
For she, my love, my fate, she sat by my side
On a fallen oak, her cheek all flushed with a bashful shame,
Telling me what her innocent heart had hid—
"For was not I her brother, her dear brother, all but in name."
I listened to her low words, but turned my face away—
Away from her eyes' soft light, and the mocking light of the day.
On a fallen oak, her cheek all flushed with a bashful shame,
Telling me what her innocent heart had hid—
"For was not I her brother, her dear brother, all but in name."
I listened to her low words, but turned my face away—
Away from her eyes' soft light, and the mocking light of the day.
"He was noble and proud," she said, "and had chosen her from all
The haughty ladies, and great; she didn't deserve her lot."
The haughty ladies, and great; she didn't deserve her lot."
