ICHABOD

Gone is the glory from the hills,

The autumn sunshine from the mere,

Which mourns for the declining year

In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills

The misty twilight atmosphere,

In which familiar things appear

Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago

Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,

The pearl of all the twenty-four.

Erelong the winter gales shall blow,

Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze —

And oh, that it were June once more!