THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN.

But late the song of reaper

Was heard amid the corn,

But now an anthem deeper

Unto my ear is borne,

Of winds among the mountains,

In their unruly play,

With voice of swollen fountains,

That bear the leaves away.

The golden garb of summer,

Like earth, my soul has lost,

The breath of the dark comer

Its rosy mirth has crost;

For my spirit changeth

With the varying sky,

As a cloud estrangeth

The wood-bird’s melody.

W. F.