Poems (Bushnell)/Late Days

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

II.

LATE DAYS

How sweetly dies the year,
 Serenely lapsing to its last repose!
It flamed with joy when first the end drew near;
 Now hushed it sinks into its golden close,
    As hearth-fires burning low
    Lie still and glow.

I hear our little maid
 Sing through the rustling leaves her cheery song.
Her spring-time voice rings out so unafraid,
 So like to one that has been silent long,
    I shut my eyes to see
    If it can be.

The past looks all a dream:
 I doubt my joys, and oh! I doubt my grief!
The shadow mingles strangely with the gleam,
 And all drops from me like a withered leaf
    Blown by celestial wind
    Far, far behind.

Now there remains a rest;
 And, warmly wrapped within this filmy haze,
That spreads its yellow net across the west,
 Upon the sweet receding year I gaze
    And feel the tender peace
    Of days that cease.

Slowly the colors burn:
 Their glowing hearts must fall to ashen brown,
And flicker out and into shadows turn;
 But then the gentle snow will flutter down,
    A soft, white sleep will fall,
    And cover all—

That long, long, quiet sleep
 That falls upon all death from out the sky.
Heaven tenderly our fallen leaves will keep;
 They do not die, they only seem to die.
    So pray I it may be
    With me, with me.