  Written in childhood, in a maple grove [15] Quickly earth's jewels disappear; The turf, whereon I tread, Ere autumn blanch another year, May rest above my head. Touched by the finger of decay [20] Is every earthly love; For joy, to shun my weary way, Is registered above. The languid brooklets yield their sighs, A requiem o'er the tomb [25] Of sunny days and cloudless skies, Enhancing autumn's gloom. The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, [1] To scare my woodland walk, And frightened fancy flees, to roam Where ghosts and goblins stalk. The cricket's sharp, discordant scream [5] Fills mortal sense with dread; More sorrowful it scarce could seem; It voices beauty fled. Yet here, upon this faded sod,— O happy hours and fleet,— [10] When songsters' matin hymns to God Are poured in strains so sweet, My heart unbidden joins rehearse; I hope it's better made, When mingling with the universe, [15] Beneath the maple's shade. |
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