By Mrs L. C. Whiton.
There are lingering south-winds softly blowing
That to billowy waving the ripe grain bear;
There are dark-winged butterflies languidly going
Floating through golden air;
There are mists like vapor of incense burning,
That are rolling away under skies that are fair;
There are brown-faced sun-flowers dreamily turning,
Shaking their yellow hair.
There are noisy bees that are tired of winging
That are holding a court in some wild rose's heart;
There are sudden thrills of the late sweet singing
Of birds that are loth to depart;
There are sunsets watching their own hot blushes
On the breast of the ocean burning away;
There are wind-swept pines in the infinite hushes
Whispering as they sway.
There are changing ferns in the shadows lying,
Where the undried dews in the noontides stay;
There are gorgeous-hued leaves where, rustling and sighing,
Quivering sunbeams play;
There are tangled vines in the hollows trailing;
There are short sweet days that will not delay;
There are nights that come with a moonlight veiling
And Autumn going away.