  On woodland and on mountain side Rich, varied tints appear; By mossy stone and wandering wave Pale leaves are falling sere; The garden flowers all scattered lie, In sorrowful decay, And the greenness of the valley slope Is fading fast away! And are the verdure and the bloom In their fresh prime so dear, That thus the spirit mourneth o'er The ruin of the year? No! 'tis because true types are they Of lovelier, dearer things; Hopes, joys, and transports, unto which The soul so fondly clings. There is a moral in each leaf That droppeth from the tree; In each lone, barren bough that points To heaven so mournfully: Mute Nature, in her silent way, A mystic lesson tells, And they who watch the Sybil well May profit by her spells. Bon-Rosni. Richmond, Virginia. |
|
