Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/164

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year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill
 * The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower
 * Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower

In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill
 * Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower,
 * Have in adversity's inclement hour

Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.

But hearken! Yonder russet bird among
 * The crimson clusters of the homely thorn