Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest

It Is A Sultry Day; The Sun Has Drunk The Dew That Lay Upon The Morning Grass; There Is No Rustling In The Lofty Elm That Canopies My Dwelling, And Its Shade Scarce Cools Me. All Is Silent, Save The Faint And Interrupted Murmur Of The Bee, Settling On The Sick Flowers, And Then Again Instantly On The Wing.

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

There Is A Day Of Sunny Rest For Every Dark And Troubled Night; And Grief May Hide An Evening Guest, But Joy Shall Come With Early Light.

Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget.