THE RECOLLECTION. JE wandered to the pine-forest WE 1; That skirts the ocean's foam The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scattered from above the sun A light of paradise. We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest-bough, Each seemed as 'twere a little sky A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And purer than the day In which the lovely forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love SWE From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And eddying come and go, In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, Above the reedy stream Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The winds shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The pollen-dusted bees That linger in the last flowers of September; Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember. The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest Summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wildfowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. - George Arnold. A WILD ROSE IN SEPTEMBER. O WILD red rose, what spell has stayed Where hid the south wind when he laid His heart on thine these autumn nights? At sight of thee, and two hearts share O sweet wild rose! O strong south wind Alas! red rose, thy petals wilt; Our loving hands tend thee in vain ; Yet joy, wild rose! Be glad, south wind! Ye shall live on, in two hearts shrined, - Helen Hunt Jackson. THE SWEETBRIER. UR sweet, autumnal western-scented wind OUR Sweet; autors none so sweet a flower, In all the blooming waste it left behind, Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door, I love it, for it takes its untouched stand, You love your flowers and plants; and will you hate The little four-leaved rose that I, love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? -John G. C. Brainard. TO THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. WAN JAN brightener of the fading year, Rough teller of the winter near, Chrysanthemum; Gray low-hung skies and woodlands sere, Chrysanthemum; Yes, well I love to see thee here, Chrysanthemum. Thou comest when the rose is dead, Chrysanthemum ; When pink and lily both have fled, Chrysanthemum; |