Autumn is round us everywhere; The climbing roses wear a look That says they wither with a fear That summer has the world forsook; The ether floats the thistle-down; The hills are gemmed with golden-rod; The laurel's ever-gleaming crown From tall, red pillar looks abroad; The birds, belate, their voices tune To notes we never heard in June.
The herds upon a thousand hills, The flocks that seek the evening fold, The music of the lessened rills, The waning sunset's red and gold, FOOTBRIDGE AT THE LATOURELLE FALL.
Photo by Watkins.
FOOTBRIDGE AT THE LATOURELLE FALL.
The leaf that flutters to the sod, The flower that fades upon its stem, The mountain ash and golden-rod, The forest's frost-touched diadem, Reflect the fullness of the past, As freighted barks reach home at last.
The latest shocks are still afield; The rains have robed the pastures new; The crescent moon's inverted shield Is sinking 'neath the western blue; The stars come glinting, one by one, From out the overbending arch, And myriad eyes, when day is done, Review the constellations' march; All Nature's humblest things delight In restful wonders of the night.
The noisome creatures, where are they? Distorted things, chimeras dire, That know of neither night nor day And care not for celestial fire! They, as the angels, are not seen, Though oft-times felt to mortal sight, For shapes of dread, or heavenly mien, Seek deepest shade or purest light; We only know that night-time brings The rustling of the angels' wings.
