That time of year thou may'st in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the

cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds

sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest :
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love

more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere

long.

-Shakespeare.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

-Bryant.

AUTUMN SONG

Red leaf, gold leaf,
Flutter down the wind:

Life is brief, oh! life is brief,
But Mother Earth is kind;

From her dear bosom ye shall spring
To new blossoming.

The red leaf, the gold leaf,
They have had their way;
Love is long if life be brief,-

Life is but a day:

And Love from Grief and Death shall spring

To new blossoming.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson

Ra

AFFAIRE D'AMOUR.

One pale November day,
Flying Summer paused,
They say:

And growing bolder,

O'er rosy shoulder

Threw to her Lover such a glance, That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy Lover!)

A leafless Peach-tree bold

Thought for him she smiled,
I'm told;

And, stirred by love,

His sleeping sap did move,

Decking each naked branch with green
To show her that her look was seen!
(Alas! poor Lover!)

But Summer, laughing, fled,

Nor knew he loved her!

'Tis said

The Peach-tree sighed,

And soon he gladly died:

And Autumn, weary of the chase,

Came on at Winter's sober pace.

(O careless Lover!)

-Margaret Deland.