  September strews the woodland o'er With many a brilliant color; The world is brighter than before,— Why should our hearts be duller? Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather! Ah me! this glory and this grief Agree not well together. This is the parting season,—this The time when friends are flying; And lovers now, with many a kiss, Their long farewells are sighing. Why is Earth so gayly dressed? This pomp, that Autumn beareth, A funeral seems where every guest A bridal garment weareth. Each one of us, perchance, may here, On some blue morn hereafter, Return to view the gaudy year, But not with boyish laughter. We shall then be wrinkled men, Our brows with silver laden, And thou this glen may'st seek again, But nevermore a maiden! Nature perhaps foresees that Spring Will touch her teeming bosom, The bird, the bee, the blossom; Ah! these forests do not know— Or would less brightly wither— The virgin that adorns them so Will nevermore come hither! Thomas William Parsons. |
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