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!
Song of the Sand Storm
I am the pitiless Sand Storm,
The whelp of a tameless breed-
My dam the desert, my sire the air;
I stealthily come from my shadowy lair,
And away, and away I speed!
I lie in the sun on the mesa
Outstretching my yellow length;
I drowse and I purr in a tigerish way,
Then suddenly leap on my terrified prey
With more than a tiger's strength!
I scar the cliffs in my fury,
Effacing their ancient runes;
I polish the skeleton bones that lie
Unnoted, unburied- and scurrying by,
Heap higher the gray sand dunes.
The arrogant sentinel mountains
Make challenge- yet little I reck;
And vainly the obdurate cactus sets
In my pathway a million bayonets-
It never my course can check.
The pace of the caravan quickens
At the thought of my wild caprice;
And the thunder rouses and beats his drums
To tell the world that the Sand Storm comes-
And the songs and the laughter cease!
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!
The Bluebird
I saw a pretty bluebird, yesterday,
Rocking itself upon a budding spray-
The while it fluted forth a tender song
That brought a promise of sunshiny days.
It is the loveliest little bird that comes
In early spring-time to our northern homes.
We note its presence, bid it welcome here,
Before the crocus its green calyx parts
To lead the smiling sisterhood of flowers
In fair procession through the summer land.
The sweet-voiced warbler wears a coat that mocks
The fair, fringed gentian in its azure hue,
Or the blue larkspur.
Oftentimes a bar
Of music or the drowsy hum of bees
In an old orchard, or the faintest scent
Of a familiar blossom, leads us back
Along the track of years, to sights and sounds
Of long ago. So, ever, when I hear
The bluebird caroling its perfect song-
Whose harshest note breathes only love and peace-
And when I mark its brilliant uniform-
This midget bird, so small that it might be
Imprisoned in a lady's lily hand-
I am reminded of the battle years
When men, full-armed, and wearing suits of blue,
Marched to the music of the fife and drum
In strong battalions in a southern land.
And all the pomp and blazonry of war-
Guidons and banners tossing in the breeze,
Sabers and muskets glinting in the sun,
Carriage and caisson rumbling o'er the stones,
The midnight vigil of the lone vidette,
The shock and roar of battle, and the shouts
Of the victorious army when the fight
Was done; the aftermath of sorrows deep-
The cries and moans of wounded, dying men,
The hurried burial of the dead at night,
The broken lives in many homes, the hearths
Made desolate- all these come back to me,
As I beheld and knew them once; and then,
In sad reflection to myself I sigh:
What weak, inglorious fools we mortals are
That war must be, or any need of war.
And yet, the better day is coming when
The teachings of the lowly Nazarene
Shall be the rule of nations- as of men;
The sword and bayonet shall be preserved,
By the fair children of a nobler race,
As relics only, of a barbarous past
When men were crazed, and shed each other's blood.
All souls shall be in touch and harmony
With Nature, and her higher, holier laws;
And all the world, from farthest sea to sea,
Shall know a sweet, idyllic peace and rest,
Unmarred by strife, or any harsher sounds
Than her harmonious voices- ocean waves,
Breaking in rhythmic beat upon the shore;
The murmurous solo of the valley brook-
The wind's wild monody amid the pines-
The thrush's whistle, and the bluebird's song.
