. . .Clearer the stars are sparkling overhead,
And all the sky is pure, without a stain.
Cool blows the evening wind from out the west,
And bows the flowers, the last sweet flowers that bloom,—
Pale asters, many a heavy waving plume
Of golden-rod, that bends as if opprest.
The summer's songs are hushed. Up the lone shore
The weary waves wash sadly, and a grief
Sounds in the wind, like farewells fond and brief.
The cricket's chirp but makes the silence more.
Life's autumn comes; the leaves begin to fall;
The moods of spring and summer pass away;
The glory and the rapture, day by day,
Depart, and soon the quiet grave folds all.
O thoughtful sky, how many eyes in vain
Are lifted to your beauty, full of tears!
How many hearts go back through all the years,
Heavy with loss, eager with questioning pain
To read the dim Hereafter,—to obtain
One g. . . Read More