 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
78
A DAY IN AUTUMN.
One ramble through the woods with me,
Thou dear companion of my days!
These mighty woods, how quietly
They sleep in autumn's golden haze!
Thou dear companion of my days!
These mighty woods, how quietly
They sleep in autumn's golden haze!
The gay leaves, twinkling in the breeze,
Still to the forest branches cling,
They lie like blossoms on the trees—
The brightest blossoms of the spring.
Still to the forest branches cling,
They lie like blossoms on the trees—
The brightest blossoms of the spring.
Flowers linger in each sheltered nook,
And still the cheerful song of bird,
And murmur of the bee and brook,
Through all the quiet groves are heard;
And still the cheerful song of bird,
And murmur of the bee and brook,
Through all the quiet groves are heard;
And bell of kine that sauntering browse,
And squirrel, chirping as he hides
Where gorgeously, with crimson boughs,
The creeper clothes the oak's gray sides.
And squirrel, chirping as he hides
Where gorgeously, with crimson boughs,
The creeper clothes the oak's gray sides.
How mild the light in all the skies!
How balmily the south wind blows!
The smile of God around us lies,
His rest is in this deep repose.
How balmily the south wind blows!
The smile of God around us lies,
His rest is in this deep repose.
79
These whispers of the flowing air,
These waters that in music fall,
These sounds of peaceful life, declare
The love that keeps and hushes all.
These waters that in music fall,
These sounds of peaceful life, declare
The love that keeps and hushes all.
Then let us to the forest shade,
And roam its paths the livelong day;
These glorious hours were never made
In life's dull cares to waste away.
And roam its paths the livelong day;
These glorious hours were never made
In life's dull cares to waste away.
We'll wander by the running stream,
And pull the wild grape hanging o'er,
And list the fisher's startling scream,
That perches by the pebbly shore.
And pull the wild grape hanging o'er,
And list the fisher's startling scream,
That perches by the pebbly shore.
And when the sun, to his repose,
Sinks in the rosy west at even,
And over field and forest throws
A hue that makes them seem like heaven,—
Sinks in the rosy west at even,
And over field and forest throws
A hue that makes them seem like heaven,—
We'll overlook the glorious land,
From the green brink of yonder height,
And silently adore the hand
That made our world so fair and bright.
From the green brink of yonder height,
And silently adore the hand
That made our world so fair and bright.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |