NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
The summer sun is sinking low;
Only the tree-tops redden and glow:
Only the weathercock on the spire
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful,
Heart so full of care and cumber,
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
IT was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
Whereunto is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood,
Who has it has much trouble and care,
O Traveller, stay thy weary feet;
Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet;
It flows for rich and poor the same.
Then go thy way, remembering still
At The Consecration Of Pulaski's Banner.
When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
By his evening fire the artist
Pondered o'er his secret shame;
Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.