FALL

Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes,

Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!

Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom

Of tawny twilights; burdened with perfume

Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;

And all the beauty of the fire-kissed

Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,

Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.

I think of thee as seated‘ mid the showers

Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers,—

The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June

Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune

A singer gives her soul's wild melody,—

Watching the squirrel store his granary.

Or,‘ mid old orchards I have pictured thee:

Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back;

One lovely shoulder bathed with gipsy black;

Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweet

The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.

Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?

A heart-sick bird, that sang of happier hours?

A cricket dirging days that soon must die?

Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?