Falling Leaves
Now the leaves are falling, bronze and brown and yellow,
Some are dry as parchment, crisp as new bank notes.
Seldom do I hear the wild birds singing;
What has stopped the music in their throats?
When the leaves are falling, gentle is their patter,
In the garden pathway such a night as this-
Never the breath of a light breeze stirring,
Even the violet must forego his kiss.
So it is at vespers, and likewise at the dawning,
When I am gazing through the window pane;
Often I think that the scene is sadder-
Sadder than the sobbing of the autumn rain.
Peach, unquiet dreamer! Better things are coming,
Brief the stress of winter, summer days are long.
Joy! The gray November, even now, presages
Riot of the roses, and the linnet's song!
October
Full wealth of pleasing sights
October brings us- rare delights
Of golden days, and moon-bright, silver nights.
The very air is wine,
And cordial, in its crystalline,
Cool sweetness, and we drink the nectar fine.
Some small, white flowers- the pledge
Of the dead Summer- star the edge
Of the wide field's embroidery of hedge.
The mountains wear their hoods
Of cloud with softer grace; there broods
A royal splendor over all the woods.
Leaves, red as sunset skies-
Leaves, opulent with Tyrian dyes,
Or gold, or brown, a glory and surprise!
And scarlet berries shine;
And wild grapes, filled with ruddy wine,
Are meshed and held in tangled nets of vine.
Some migrant birds we know,
Whose notes in rippling music flow,
Are heard no more. Ah! whither did they go?
Perhaps in far-off isles
Of Indian seas, where summer smiles,
Each song we love some weary heart beguiles.
Yet, the brown quail is here,
Piping, in treble, full and clear,
His song of home, and sweet content, and cheer.
The red-wing spreads his wings
Above the ripening corn, and sings-
Nor sweeter notes leaped from Apollo's strings.
And, shrill, the noisy jay,
A blue-coat cynic, day by day,
Scolds in the walnut tree across the way.
He scolds because, perchance,
He sees the darker days advance,
When Winter comes to couch a frosty lance;
Because the forest's crown
Of splendid leafage, drifting down,
Will leave his realm a landscape, bare and brown.
So moves the painted show-
Mirage of Summer! till the glow
Of Autumn dies, amid the falling snow!
Thanksgiving
The golden glow of autumn-time
Hath faded like an ember,
And on the dreary landscape lies
The first flakes of November;
Chill blows the wind through woods discrowned
Of all their leafy glory,
As thus the seasons in their round
Repeat the endless story!
The earth hath yielded up her fruits
To bless the farmer's labors,
And peace and plenty crown the lives
Of cheery friends and neighbors;
In fertile vales, on prairies broad,
In homes by lake and river,
Ten thousand thousand hearts unite
To bless the Gracious Giver.
Thanksgiving for the harvest full,
The orchard's mellow treasures,
The purple grapes, the golden corn,
And all the joys and pleasures,
And bounties rich and manifold,
That make life worth the living-
For these, alike, the young and old,
Join in a glad thanksgiving.
The kindly pair, whose weight of years
With frosty locks hath crowned them;
Are seated at the festal board
With all their children round them;
The father giveth fervent thanks
In homely phrase and diction,
And stretches forth his aged hands
In holy benediction.
Thus friends, long sundered, reunite,
Recount each joy and pleasure-
The annals of the fading past-
And fill again the measure
Of youth, and healthful joyousness,
As in the glad time olden,
When life was new, and skies were blue,
And all the days were golden.
Thanks to the Pilgrim Fathers, then,
Whose little goodly leaven
Works out through all the buried years
This sweet foretaste of heaven.
And to the Lord, whose bounteous gifts
Make life well worth the living-
Who dwells above, whose name is Love-
Be evermore thanksgiving!
