SEPTEMBER WOODLANDS.

This is not sadness in the wood;

The yellowbird

Flits joying through the solitude,

By no thought stirred

Save of his little duskier mate

And rompings jolly.

If there's a Dryad in the wood,

She is not sad.

Too wise the spirits are to brood;

Divinely glad,

They dream with countenance sedate

Not melancholy.