THE YELLOWING WOOD.

THE YELLOWING WOOD.
560.1

Now with the stealthy touch of Autumn’s frend.
When all the harvest gold is gathered in,
The quiet woods begin
To burn as with a magte flame of red,
The fail ripe berry glistens in the brake,
The acorn drops among the mosses low,
The drooping brackens glow-
And I am sud for old remembrance sake.

The fraller leaves begin to rustle down
Liko restless wraiths, the playthings of the wind.
Where laughing children find
A wealth of berries black and wood-nuts brown.
The traveler’s Joy Is as n bower of snow,
White as the thistledown that dallies by;
And in roy heart a cry Walls for the glories that illusive go.

Here in the twilight of the dying day
Soft volces whisper through the misty gloom,
As in a lonely room
Thoughts of the past spring up and die nway.
Perhaps the spirits of old years arise
To speak of hope among the falling leaves;
Perhaps my soul deceives
And to its questioning no volce replies.
-Pall Mall Gazette