Poems (Bushnell)/Late Days

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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.
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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.
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