EVENING. ALREADY evening! In the duskiest nook Shelves his sharp light up shallow banks thin-spread; Up from the ripen'd corn her silver hook The moon is lifting: and deliciously Along the warm blue hills the day declines. The first star brightens while she waits for me, And round her swelling heart the zone grows tight: Musing, half-sad, in her soft hair she twines The white rose, whispering "He will come to-night!" Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton). 18 Modern Poets. 274 AUTUMN. AUTUMN. THOU Comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, OCTOBER. THE passionate summer's dead! The sky's aglow Whose pomp of strange procession upwards rolls Paul H. Hayne. 276 THE INDIAN SUMMER. THE INDIAN SUMMER, It is the season when the light of dreams Mantled with mysteries of their own romance, Thomas Buchanan Read AUTUMN IDLENESS. THIS sunlight shames November where he grieves The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun, Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves. Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew; D. G. Rossetti, |