THE THREADBARE TREES
The threadbare trees so poor and thin,
They are no wealthier than I,
But with as brave a core within,
They rear their boughs to the October sky.
Poor knights they are that bravely wait
The charge of winter's cavalry,
Keeping a simple Roman state,
Discumbered of their Persian luxury.
I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.
These changes we already beheld with prophetic vision, for summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable epoch and point of time, like the turning of a leaf. It is pleasant to hear once more the crackling flight of grasshoppers amid the stubble. It is pleasant when summer is drawing to a close to hear the cricket piping a Niebelungenlied in the grass.
The feathered race are, perhaps, the truest heralds of the season, since they appreciate a thousand delicate changes in the atmosphere
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