OCTOBER TWILIGHT. H, mute among the months, | Up from the valley; overlapping hills, October, thou, Like a hot reaper when the sun goes down, Tipped by the sunset, burn like funeral lamps For the dead day; no pomp of tinsel clouds. Reposing in the twilight of Breaks the pure hyaline the mountains Is yon the silver glitter of A gem without a flaw-but, sharply drawn thy scythe Drawn threadlike on the west? September comes Humming those waifs of song June's choral days Left in the forest, but thy tuneless lips Breathe only a pervading haze that seems Visible silence, and thy Sabbath face Scares swart November, from yon northern hills A rifle's rattling charge starts up the echoes, | Flow, hidden tears, and, sorrows deep, atone, Along those swelling mounds that look like Hymn it round our souls; according harps, By angel-fingers touched when the mild stars Where flowers grow thick in June, thy step Of morning sang together, sound forth still graves, falls soft As the dropt leaves; amid the faded brakes The wind, retreating, hides, and, cowering there, Whines at thy coming like a hound afraid. EDITH MAY. THE GRAVE OF LOVE. The song of our great immortality; main, The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. Oh, listen, ye our spirits! drink it in From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; STAND between two lives-a life that's 'Tis floating in day's setting glories; Night, gone, A life that's dead, yet died to live again : O unforgotten joys, remembered pain, Feed all my years with memory alone. Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears; |