Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the pa.s.sionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent.

The gra.s.shopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under the moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them.

SARA TEASDALE

"FROST TO-NIGHT"

Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ...

And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will.

Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!

A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,--the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ..."

Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

EDITH M. THOMAS

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen ...

With faint dry sound, Like steps of pa.s.sing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

ADELAIDE c.r.a.pSEY

THE SNOW-GARDENS

Like an empty stage The gardens are empty and cold; The marble terraces rise Like vases that hold no flowers; The lake is frozen, the fountain still; The marble walls and the seats Are useless and beautiful.

Ah, here Where the wind and the dusk and the snow are All is silent and white and sad!

Why do I think of you?

Why does your name remorselessly Strike through my heart?

Why does my soul awaken and shudder?

Why do I seem to hear Cries as lovely as music?

Surely you never came Into these pale snow-gardens; Surely you never stood Here in the twilight with me; Yet here I have lingered and dreamed Of a face as subtle as music, Of golden hair, and of eyes Like a child's ...

I have felt on my brow Your finger-tips, plaintive as music ...

O Wonder of all wonders, O Love-- Wrought of sweet sounds and of dreaming!-- Why do you not emerge From the lilac pale petals of dusk, And come to me here in the gardens Where the wind and the snow are?

Beauty and Peace are here-- And unceasing music-- And a loneliness chill and wistful, Like the feeling of death.

Like a crystal lily a star Leans from its leaves of silver And gleams in the sky; And golden and faint in the shadows You wait indistinctly,-- Like a phantom lamp that appears In the mirror of distance that hovers By the window at twilight-- You have come--and we stand together, With questioning eyes-- Dreaming and cold and ghostly In an empty garden that seems Like an empty stage.

ZOe AKINS

A SONG FOR WINTER

Speak not of snow and cold and rime Now they prevail.

Would you have joy in winter-time, Think of the pale New green that comes, of blossoming lilacs think, Larkspur, and borders of the fringed pink.

And sing, if winter grants you heart to sing, Of summer and of spring.

Would you secure some happiness In frosty hours, Trust to the eye external less Than to the powers Of inward sight that even now may show Opaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glow Of daybreak on the glades where thrushes sing In summer and in spring.

Gaze not on fettered lake and brook And sullen skies, But in your happy memory look Where beauty lies As once it was, as it shall be again When sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain, And sing, as must who would in winter sing, Of summer and of spring.

MRS. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER

WINGS AND SONG

"I MEANT TO DO MY WORK TO-DAY"

_I meant to do my work to-day-- But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree And a b.u.t.terfly flitted across the field, And all the leaves were calling me._

_And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the gra.s.ses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- So what could I do but laugh and go?_

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

THE HUMMINGBIRD

Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away!

Hi! little rover, stop and stay.

Merry, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier-- Was ever a bee merrier, airier?

Wings folded so, a second or two-- Was ever a crow more solemn than you?

A-whirr again over the garden, away!

Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay?

Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss!

What do you know that we humans miss?