A SONG OF REGRET.

In the southward sky

The late swallows fly,

The low red willows

In the river quiver;

From the beeches nigh

Russet leaves sail by,

The tawny billows

In the chill wind shiver;

The beech-burrs burst,

And the nuts down-patter;

The red squirrels chatter

O'er the wealth disperst.

Yon carmine glare

Would the west outdare;—

‘ Tis the Fall attire

Of the maples flaming.

In the keen late air

Is an impulse rare,

A sting like fire,

A desire past naming.

But the crisp mists rise

And my heart falls a-sighing,—

Sighing, sighing

That the sweet time dies!