184
so little.
SO LITTLE.
'TIS little we can look for now;
The summer years are past;
The air is thick with coming snow,
And dead leaves, falling fast.
A lonelier sound is in the wind,
For withered roses left behind.
The summer years are past;
The air is thick with coming snow,
And dead leaves, falling fast.
A lonelier sound is in the wind,
For withered roses left behind.
There was an Indian summer, sweet
With blossoms, faint and few,
When fruits lay ripened at our feet;
But that has faded, too.
Its joy was but the after-glow
Of sunsets crimsoned long ago.
With blossoms, faint and few,
When fruits lay ripened at our feet;
But that has faded, too.
Its joy was but the after-glow
Of sunsets crimsoned long ago.
And yet we never plucked the flowers
That budded in our dreams:
Even at the best, this world of ours
Is other than it seems.
A generous world indeed it is,—
Most generous in its promises,
That budded in our dreams:
Even at the best, this world of ours
Is other than it seems.
A generous world indeed it is,—
Most generous in its promises,
