by Charlotte Oates

Golden harvest time is past.
Soon will blow the wintry blast,
    Autumn winds are sighing ;
Shorter grows the light of day,
Summers flowers have passed away.
    All its foliage dying.

Bright-hued leafage now we see
Ripe upon the forest tree,
    Quiv'ring, rich and mellow.
Changing is the woodland scene,
All that once was fresh and green,
    Turning red and yellow.

Nature now has lost its bloom,
All things blighted, tinged with gloom,
    Gone is Summer's gladness ;
Earthward fall the leaves away,
Where was life in now decay,
    Wrapped in dreamy sadness.

Stubble fields bereft of corn,
Looking barren and forlorn
    In the lonely gloaming.
We might weave a russet wreath
Of the scattered leaves beneath
    Trees no longer blooming.

We are trampling 'neath our feet
Nature's leafy carpet sweet,—
    On the ground reposing.
Peaceful Autumn, pensive, still,
Waits for Winter's touch to chill,
    Now her reign is closing.

Fruit is garnered : on the steep,
Web-entangled brambles creep,
    Autumn's fragrance flinging;
Yet some wild blackberries grow,
On those bushes trailing low,
    To the thorn-tree clinging.

Birds that trilled in Summer time,
Go to seek a warmer clime,
    O'er the wave retreating ;—
They that sung so sweetly here,
Leave us till another year,
    With the Autumn fleeting.

Mournful season of the year,
Withered herbage, brown and sere;
    Winter near advancing;
Ling'ring flowers no perfume shed,
Only nuts and berries red,
    Through the thicket glancing.

And a hazy veil hangs round,
Drooping slowly to the ground,
    In the swampy valleys :
All the fields look long and grey,
At the closing Autumn day,
    As the twilight tarries.

Keen east wind around us creeps,
See! the low'ring sky now weeps,
    Summer's thirst 'tis quenching :
Raindrops make in yonder pool
Eddies in the water cool,
    Woods and meadows drenching.

Wild Æolus tunes his lays,
Mourning o'er the bygone days,
    With a sad repining;—
Its sweet requiem chanting low,
For the Autumn's hectic glow,
    Shows the year's declining.

Nature heaves a weary sigh,
Now her Summer charms must die.
    To her couch she's creeping ;
Of all vernal beauty shorn
Is the garb she long has worn.
    She unrobes for sleeping.

How the swollen stream is sped!
O'er its clear and stony bed,
    Ever quickly flowing;
On, to meet the mighty sea.
Careless in its course so free,
    Whither it is going.

Wandering by grassy slopes,
Through the dingle and the copse
    And among the rushes ;
Onward, babbling streamlet flow.
Sweetly murm'ring, and thy low
    Music seldom hushes.

Riv'let giving life and sound,
To the landscape all around,
    Where the ferns are growing;
Winding where the twigs entwine
By the pastures, where the kine
    Seek it, gently lowing.

Winter soon will wave his hand-
Cast his spell o'er all the land.
    Trees their boughs be baring:
While we stroll the woods among,
Nature's kneeling, for her long
    Winter's sleep preparing.

Autumn-time I love the best,
When all Nature sinks to rest,
    Varied tints revealing;
So from lite, we too. must part.
Thus those tokens till my heart,
    With a solemn feeling.

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