SUMMER is fading; the broad leaves that grew
So freshly green, when June was young, are falling;
And, all the whisper-haunted forest through,
Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone:
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
Days long agone.
Sweet is the voice that calls
From babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow
'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
A pleasant golden light fills all the chamber where I sit,
the amber curtains close are drawn, and shadows o’er then flit—
Have you sent her all her letters? have you given her back herring?
SUMMER Winds, whispering over the rye,
Kissing the roses and hurrying by,
Where have ye latest been, 0 where?
On hill and field October’s glories fade;
O’er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly;
The brown leaves rustle down tbe forest glade,