 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
57
NOVEMBER.
In the chill shadow of the songless wood,
Of late so musical in the summer air,
Sits autumn, in her lonely solitude,
Hiding her sad face with her nut-brown hair.
Of late so musical in the summer air,
Sits autumn, in her lonely solitude,
Hiding her sad face with her nut-brown hair.
Crowned not with the bright garland she has worn
In the sweet light of the October days,
For winter's hand the wreath has rudely torn,
Blighted and faded, from its resting-place.
In the sweet light of the October days,
For winter's hand the wreath has rudely torn,
Blighted and faded, from its resting-place.
With angry haste he tears away its leaves,
Crushing its flowers beneath his icy tread,
Then, half-repenting his unkindness, weaves
A band of pearls around her drooping head.
Crushing its flowers beneath his icy tread,
Then, half-repenting his unkindness, weaves
A band of pearls around her drooping head.
Alas, the gift has chilled her to the heart;—
And now with gentle touch and breathings low,
He lays the brown locks from her face apart,
And wraps her in a winding-sheet of snow.
And now with gentle touch and breathings low,
He lays the brown locks from her face apart,
And wraps her in a winding-sheet of snow.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |