THE SPIRIT OF THE FALL.

THE SPIRIT OF THE FALL.
553.2

Beside a woodland stream whose waters brawl,
All pensive, sits the Spirit of the Fall.
Her garments brown and gold, her shoul- ders bare,
Her bosom curtained by her loosened hair.
Her brow entwined with maple leaves aglow:
One brown foot stretched to meet the water’s flow,
The other pressed deep in the mosses rank
Which grow in rich profusion on the bank.
One rounded elbow rests upon her knee;
With chin in hand, she sits there silently,
Gazing adown the wide ways of the wood.
To see each tree splotched with its own life blood.
The leaves fall gently ’round her, and the breeze
Plays with her shining hair. The drone of bees
Pervades the silence like a muffled lute;
A wood thrush calls, like sweetest note of flute.
And so she sits, sad-eyed and still, alone;
A beggar queen upon a wildwood throne!
-Edwin Carille Litsey