AUTUMN IN THE HILLS.
November came that day,
And all the air was gray
With delicate mists, blown down
From hilltops by the south wind's balmy breath;
And all the oaks were brown
As Egypt's kings in death.
The maple's crown of gold
Laid tarnished on the wold;
The alder, and the ash, the aspen and the willow,
Wore tattered suits of yellow.
The soft October rains
Had left some scarlet stains
Of color on the landscape's neutral ground;
Those fine ephemeral things,
The winged notes of sound,
That sing the "Harvest Home"
Of ripe Autumn in the gloam
Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river,
Sang that day their best endeavor.
I said: "In what sweet place
Shall we meet, face to face,
Her loveliest self to see—
Meet Nature, at her sad autumnal rites,
And learn the mystery
Of her unnamed delights?"
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