POEMS
395
To Mr. James T. White
| Who loves not June |
| Is out of tune |
| With love and God; |
| The rose his rival reigns, |
| The stars reject his pains, |
| His home the clod! |
| And yet I trow, |
| When sweet rondeau |
| Doth play a part, |
| The curtain drops on June; |
| Veiled is the modest moon — |
| Hushed is the heart. |
Autumn
Written in childhood, in a maple grove
| Quickly earth's jewels disappear; |
| The turf, whereon I tread, |
| Ere autumn blanch another year, |
| May rest above my head. |
| Touched by the finger of decay |
| Is every earthly love; |
| For joy, to shun my weary way, |
| Is registered above. |
| The languid brooklets yield their sighs, |
| A requiem o'er the tomb |
| Of sunny days and cloudless skies, |
| Enhancing autumn's gloom. |
