IN LATE FALL.

Such days as break the wild bird's heart;

Such days as kill it and its songs;

A death which knows a sweeter part

Of days to which such death belongs.

And now old eyes are filled with tears,

As with the rain the frozen flowers;

Time moves so slowly one but fears

The burthen on his wasted powers.

And so he stopped;— and thou art dead!

And that is found which once was feared:—

A farewell to thy gray, gray head,

A goodnight to thy goodly beard!