The pale Anemone

Green

Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night; Things
Growing
The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;

Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,
In blithesome lines,

Drop their last courtesies,

Flit from the scene, and couch them for their

rest;

The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest

And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;

Fair and serene,

Her sister Lily floats

On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes
To court the golden splendor of the skies,—
The sudden signal comes, and down she goes
To find repose

In the cool depths below.

A little later, and the Asters blue

Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;
While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,
Turns him away,

Furls his bright parasol,

And, like a little hero, meets his fate.

The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,

Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set

'Neath coverlet,

Green

Downy and soft and warm.

Things No little seedling voice is heard to grieve

Growing Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know The time to go.

Teach us your patience, brave,

Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,
Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes

true,

That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,
With smiles, not sorrow.

SUSAN COOlidge.

The Death of the Flowers*

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of

the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

* By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,

that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and
good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold,
November rain,

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely
ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished

long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

Green Things Growing

Green When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Things though all the trees are still,

Growing

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose

fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Autumn's Mirth

"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,
For, watch the rain among the leaves;
With silver fingers dimly seen
It makes each leaf a tambourine,
And swings and leaps with elfin mirth
To kiss the brow of mother earth;
Or, laughing 'mid the trembling grass,
It nods a greeting as you pass.
Oh! hear the rain amid the leaves,
"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!

"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,
For, list the wind among the sheaves;
Far sweeter than the breath of May,
Or storied scents of old Cathay,

It blends the perfumes rare and good

Of spicy pine and hickory wood
And with a voice in gayest chime,
It prates of rifled mint and thyme.
Oh! scent the wind among the sheaves,
"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!

"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,
Behold the wondrous web she weaves!
By viewless hands her thread is spun
Of evening vapors shyly won.
Across the grass from side to side
A myriad unseen shuttles glide
Throughout the night, till on the height
Aurora leads the laggard light.
Behold the wondrous web she weaves,
"Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

Green Things Growing