 | Short poems for short people |  |
IN AUTUMN WEATHER.
Although these cool winds have a lonely sigh,
Sad, when I listen, as a tolling bell,
I think the summer must be glad to die
And bid her flowers and foliage farewell.
Sad, when I listen, as a tolling bell,
I think the summer must be glad to die
And bid her flowers and foliage farewell.
For are not all the meadows bright indeed
With stalks on stalks of gaudy golden-rod?
Does not the elder wear its purple bead
And many a beautiful dark aster nod?
With stalks on stalks of gaudy golden-rod?
Does not the elder wear its purple bead
And many a beautiful dark aster nod?
Yes, summer surely is right glad to go.
Among the maple's crimson-mottled leaves
And in the lofty chestnut's brilliant glow
There is no sign of anything that grieves.
Among the maple's crimson-mottled leaves
And in the lofty chestnut's brilliant glow
There is no sign of anything that grieves.
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Ah, well, perhaps she is so glad because
God has made some sweet promise to her here,
And she delights that its fulfilment draws
With every moment nearer and more near.
God has made some sweet promise to her here,
And she delights that its fulfilment draws
With every moment nearer and more near.
Some promise about seeing, when she dies,
All her lost children of those earlier hours;
The spirits of her vanished butterflies
And sweet wee angels made from her dead flowers!
All her lost children of those earlier hours;
The spirits of her vanished butterflies
And sweet wee angels made from her dead flowers!
| Short poems for short people | |