Others are worn away in woeful wise,
And they are high, where ne'er a foot may tread,
And moisture on the wall above them lies.
But yet a thought—whatever stairs they be
On which by chance I linger in the town,
Ever one thought there is brings grief to me:
That o'er them all 'midst cherished souls' dismay,
And with unhappiness and flowing tears,
Which in this life are seldom brushed away—
That o'er them all, or 'mid the flickering glow
Of tapers, or in semi-gloom, alike
The coffin with the dead is borne below.
(1892).
THE AUTUMN HAS COME
The leaves, once more dying,
Are rustling and sighing.
Autumn has reached us on tip-toe tread,
O'er night he has come, in a mist-garment shrouded,
The hues he has softened, the sheen he has clouded,
'Neath his breath o'er the trees gold and purple have sped,
And the leaves, that are dying,
Are rustling and sighing.
