autumn.
51
The contour of her cheek is gone, subdued her glance's light,
And furrows mark the thoughtful brow so sunny once and white;
There's that in her mild altered face which more than time betrays,
She hath not reached unscathed by care the Autumn of her days.
She had her cherished household gods set up at which to bow
Within the temple of her heart—each niche is empty now;
Her heart's desire, her eye's delight, were severed from her side,
And long "deep calling unto deep" was all that filled the void.
But oft the chasm hewn by grief affords a healing spring,
In which to cool the fevered brow upon life's journeying;
Her lip hath quaffed the wholesome cup, her bosom owned its balm,
And now upon dark trials past her eye falls, sad, but calm,
She marks how brief the trodden span from Autumn's withering bowers,
Back through the summer's sunny path, to spring- time's dewy flowers;
"Can this be life's decline," she cries, "nigh closed my Autumn days?
Oh! still there's verdure on the waste, and joy' attempered rays."
And furrows mark the thoughtful brow so sunny once and white;
There's that in her mild altered face which more than time betrays,
She hath not reached unscathed by care the Autumn of her days.
She had her cherished household gods set up at which to bow
Within the temple of her heart—each niche is empty now;
Her heart's desire, her eye's delight, were severed from her side,
And long "deep calling unto deep" was all that filled the void.
But oft the chasm hewn by grief affords a healing spring,
In which to cool the fevered brow upon life's journeying;
Her lip hath quaffed the wholesome cup, her bosom owned its balm,
And now upon dark trials past her eye falls, sad, but calm,
She marks how brief the trodden span from Autumn's withering bowers,
Back through the summer's sunny path, to spring- time's dewy flowers;
"Can this be life's decline," she cries, "nigh closed my Autumn days?
Oh! still there's verdure on the waste, and joy' attempered rays."
