The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 5 And the brier rose and the orchid died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade and glen. 10 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such 15 days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, 20 25 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 5 Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, Thou comest not when violets lean Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye |