FADED LEAVES.

Sometimes singing over words Which in youth's dear day gone by Sounded sweet, so sweet that I Had no praises for the birds.

Then, from off its secret shelf I from dust and moth remove The old garment of my love,

In the which I wrap myself.

And a little while am vain ; But its rose hue will not bear The sad light of faded hair; So I fold it up again,

More in patience than regret:
Not a leaf the forest through
But is sung and whispered to:
I shall wear that garment yet.

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FADED LEAVES.

THE hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land

The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.

The clouds in bars of rusty red

Along the hill-tops glow,

And in the still, sharp air, the frost
Is like a dream of snow.

The berries of the brier-rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.

The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace

Of nature, from men's eyes.

The pigeons in black wavering lines Are swinging toward the sun; And all the wide and withered fields Proclaim the summer done.

His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.

'Tis time to light the evening fire, To read good books, to sing

The low and lovely songs that breathe Of the eternal Spring.

THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY.

SOME Comfort when all else is night, About his fortune plays,

Who sets his dark to-days in the light Of the sunnier yesterdays.

In

THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY.

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memory of joy that's been

Something of joy is, still;

Where no dew is, we may dabble in
A dream of the dew at will.

All with the dusty city's throng
Walled round, I mused to-day
Of flowery sheets lying white along
The pleasant grass of the way.

Under the hedge by the brawling brook
I heard the woodpecker's tap,

And the drunken trills of the blackbirds shook
The sassafras leaves in my lap.

I thought of the rainy morning air
Dropping down through the pine,
Of furrows fresh from the shining share,
And smelling sweeter than wine.

Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew
With silver beads impearled,

In the well that we used to think ran through
To the other side of the world.

I thought of the old barn set about
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay;
Of the swallows flying in and out

Through the gables, steep and gray;

Thought of the golden hum of the bees,

Of the cocks with their heads so high, Making it morn in the tops of the trees Before it was morn in the sky.

And of the home, of the dear old home,

With its brown and rose-bound wall, Where we fancied death could never comeI thought of it more than of all.

Each childish play-ground memory claims,
Telling me here, and thus,

We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.

Thank God, when other power decays,
And other pleasures die,

We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.

A SEA SONG.

COME, make for me a little song -
'Twas so a spirit said to me —
And make it just four verses long,
And make it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.

Sing me about the wild waste shore,
Where, long and long ago, with me
You watched the silver sails that bore
The great, strong ships across the sea —
The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.

Sing me about the plans we planned :

How one of those good ships should be

SERMONS IN STONES.

My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,

Where, alway, you should live with me.

Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught

Up into heaven, because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought
Lay all beyond that other sea
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.

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SERMONS IN STONES.

FLOWER of the deep red zone,

Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star

Holdeth all heaven, alone,

And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!

Sing, little goldfinch, sing!

Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violets' eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing

As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.

O daisies of the hills,

When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow. Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show White o'er the daffodils!