  Sister, hear ye not the rustling Of the sere leaves as they fall? Teach they not—thus dropping, dying— A lesson worth the heed of all? Nature preaching, ever teaching, A lesson worth the heed of all. Once these leaves were fresh and verdant, Warmed by sunshine into birth; Now chilled by nipping blasts of autumn, They drop unto their mother earth. For wise reason, but a season! They drop unto their mother earth. Some linger still, but yellow, faded, No more with green the boughs adorn; No shelter yield where erst they shaded; Reft of their kindred, lone, forlorn. Lifeless seeming, listless gleaming, Reft of their kindred, lone, forlorn. So, though thou'rt now arrayed in satin, And pearls are glistening in thy hair; Anon thou'lt need a warmer garment— Gray hairs instead of pearls thou'lt wear: Weeds arraying, grief betraying, Gray hairs instead of pearls thou'lt wear. Then, sister, let us muse and ponder On these leaves from nature's page; And prepare, while yet in season, For a pure and happy age: Undespairing, be preparing, For a pure and happy age. I would not damp thy smile of gladness, Or cast a shadow o'er thy youth; But ever shun the paths of folly, Cleave to virtue and to truth: Self-denying, faith relying, Cleave to virtue and to truth. For neither youth, nor health, nor beauty, Can from Time's stern clutches save; But all must drop, like leaves of autumn, To the cold and silent grave: Aye we're dropping, never stopping, To the cold and silent grave. Susan Pinkerton. |
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