Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/248

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244
George Lunt.
From their broad branches drop the wither'd leaves,Drop, one by one, without a single breath,Save when some eddying curl round the old rootsTwirls them about in merry sport a while.They are not changed; their office is not done;The first soft breeze of spring shall see them freshWith sprouting twigs bursting from every branch,As should fresh feelings from our wither'd hearts.Scorn not the moral for, while these have warm'dTo annual beauty, gladdening the fieldsWith new and ever-glorious garniture,Thou hast grown worn and wasted, almost grayEven in thy very summer. 'Tis for thisWe have neglected nature! Wearing outOur hearts and all life's dearest charitiesIn the perpetual turmoil, when we needTo strengthen and to purify our mindsAmid the venerable woods; to holdChaste converse with the fountains and the winds!So should we elevate our souls; so beReady to stand and act a nobler partIn the hard, heartless struggles of the world.
Day wanes; 'tis autumn eventide again;And, sinking on the blue hills' breast, the sunSpreads the large bounty of his level blaze,Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees,And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheetOf this dark stream, in whose unruffled tideWaver the bank-shrub and the graceful elm,As the gay branches and their trembling leavesCatch the soft whisper of the coming air:So doth it mirror every passing cloud,And those which fill the chambers of the westWith such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones,Blazon'd with orient gems and barbarous gold.I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes;I see those eyes swelling with precious tears;But, if thou couldst have look'd upon this scene
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