There is no wind to stir the leaves, Only the querulous cricket grieves, A song of summer dead. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. Autumn Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad, To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold. EDMUND SPENSER. From "The Faerie Queene." Sweet September O sweet September! thy first breezes bring ter, The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. GEORGE ARNOLD. A Chanted Calendar A Chanted Calendar Autumn's Processional Then step by step walks Autumn, Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, While the equinoctials blow. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. October's Bright Blue Weather O suns and skies and clouds of June, When loud the bumblebee makes haste, And goldenrod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant; When gentians roll their fringes tight When on the ground red apples lie Are leaves of woodbine twining; When all the lovely wayside things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair, Late aftermaths are growing; When springs run low, and on the brooks, Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush When comrades seek sweet country haunts, And count like misers, hour by hour, O sun and skies and flowers of June, Love loveth best of all the year A Chanted Calendar H. H. Maple Leaves October turned my maple's leaves to gold; lingers: Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. A Chanted "Down to Sleep" Calendar November woods are bare and still, November days are clear and bright, I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, Of human sound there is, in such Low tones as through the forest sweep, Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight. Listening while they "lie down to sleep." November woods are bare and still, November days are bright and good, Life's noon burns up life's morning chill, Life's night rests feet that long have stood, The mother will not fail to keep Where we can "lay us down to sleep." H. H. Winter Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, In his right hand a tippèd staff he held When Icicles Hang by the Wall When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And milk comes frozen home in pail, To-who-a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. A Chanted Calendar |