 | Sheaf of Acrostics |  |
Winter's Coming.
Gradual, slow, like the gathering haze,
Is the subtle change from the summer days;—
Leaves still whisper in forest ways,
But the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
Is the subtle change from the summer days;—
Leaves still whisper in forest ways,
But the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
Even yet there are flowers in bloom;—
Restless tosses the aster's plume,
Though October has sighed its doom,
And the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
Restless tosses the aster's plume,
Though October has sighed its doom,
And the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
Vainly, fondly, would we delay
Every smile of the golden day,
Roadside blossom and leafy spray,
Yellow sheaves in the meadow.
Every smile of the golden day,
Roadside blossom and leafy spray,
Yellow sheaves in the meadow.
Tender tints may illume the skies;
Richest odors may drift and rise,
All the beauty of Paradise
Cheat and flatter in summer's guise,
Yet the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
Richest odors may drift and rise,
All the beauty of Paradise
Cheat and flatter in summer's guise,
Yet the sheaves are gone from the meadow.
| Sheaf of Acrostics | |