A Chanted Calendar Autumn's Processional Then step by step walks Autumn, Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, While the equinoctials blow. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. October's Bright Blue Weather O suns and skies and clouds of June, When loud the bumblebee makes haste, And goldenrod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant; When gentians roll their fringes tight When on the ground red apples lie And redder still on old stone walls Are leaves of woodbine twining; When all the lovely wayside things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, When springs run low, and on the brooks, Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush When comrades seek sweet country haunts, And count like misers, hour by hour, O sun and skies and flowers of June, Love loveth best of all the year A Chanted Calendar H. H. Maple Leaves October turned my maple's leaves to gold; Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. A Chanted "Down to Sleep" Calendar November woods are bare and still, November days are clear and bright, I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, Of human sound there is, in such Low tones as through the forest sweep, Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight. Her ferns kneel down full in my sight, Listening while they "lie down to sleep." November woods are bare and still, November days are bright and good, Life's noon burns up life's morning chill, Life's night rests feet that long have stood, The mother will not fail to keep Where we can "lay us down to sleep." H. H. Winter Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, When Icicles Hang by the Wall When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And milk comes frozen home in pail, To-who-a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. A Chanted Calendar A Chanted Calendar When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who-a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. From "Love's Labor's Lost." A Winter Morning There was never a leaf on bush or tree, For a last dim look at earth and sea. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. From "The Vision of Sir Launfal." |