The pale Anemone Green Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night; Things Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines, Drop their last courtesies, Flit from the scene, and couch them for their The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest Fair and serene, Her sister Lily floats On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes In the cool depths below. A little later, and the Asters blue Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew; Furls his bright parasol, And, like a little hero, meets his fate. Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set Green Downy and soft and warm. Things No little seedling voice is heard to grieve Growing Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know The time to go. Teach us your patience, brave, Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you, true, That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow, The Death of the Flowers * The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. *By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, Green that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold, Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; Things Growing Green When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Things though all the trees are still, Growing And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Autumn's Mirth "Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, "Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, It blends the perfumes rare and good Of spicy pine and hickory wood And with a voice in gayest chime, It prates of rifled mint and thyme. Oh! scent the wind among the sheaves, 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. Green Things Growing |