  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 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 Of sunny days and cloudless skies, Enhancing autumn's gloom. The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, To scare my woodland walk, And frightened fancy flees, to roam Where ghosts and goblins stalk. The cricket's sharp, discordant scream 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,— 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, Beneath the maple's shade. Written in girlhood, in a maple grove. |
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