IN THE CITY.

The autumn morning sweetly calls to me,

And autumn days and nights in patience wait;

I answer not, because I am not free,

Although I chose my fate.

The cold, gray mist that stains the city walls

Stands silver-columned where the river glides,

Or, slow dividing, on the valley falls,

Where one I love abides.

The wind that trifles round my city door,

Or whirls before me all the city's dust,

By the sea borrows its triumphant roar,

And lends its savage gust;

Or shrieking rushes where the sombre pines

Hold solemn converse in the ancient vale,

And while‘ t is dying in their dark confines

Babbles their mystic tale.

Could I but climb a roof above my own,

And greet grave Autumn as he walks the earth

With secret signal that would make me known,

I should not feel my dearth.

Then silver mist or loud triumphant wind

Might come in sad disguise and misery;

I would but ponder in my secret mind

How Autumn answers me.