THE PASSING YEAR.

No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves,

The meadows are as stirless as the sky,

Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie

Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves.

The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves,

Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh,

As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye,

On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.

There is a pathos in his softening glow,

Which like a benediction seems to hover

O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below

And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover,

A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow

While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.