Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/70

 AUTUMN IN THE HILLS.

November came that day,

And all the air was gray

With delicate mists, blown down

From hilltops by the south wind's balmy breath;

And all the oaks were brown

As Egypt's kings in death.

The maple's crown of gold

Laid tarnished on the wold;

The alder, and the ash, the aspen and the willow,

Wore tattered suits of yellow.

The soft October rains

Had left some scarlet stains

Of color on the landscape's neutral ground;

Those fine ephemeral things,

The winged notes of sound,

That sing the "Harvest Home"

Of ripe Autumn in the gloam

Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river,

Sang that day their best endeavor.

I said: "In what sweet place

Shall we meet, face to face,

Her loveliest self to see—

Meet Nature, at her sad autumnal rites,

And learn the mystery

Of her unnamed delights?" 64