23 
Each effort of summer the winter withstands, 
And checks every bud that too early expands, 
It would seem the most desolate time of the year, 
If we knew not that nature’s new birth were so near. 
A few pendant leaves rustle withered and sere, 
Only making the forest more death-like appear. 
Overhead, ’mongst the whispering branches are heard 
AXolian melodies, mournful and weird. 
And swaying and creaking, the lonely trees seem 
To be mourning the loss of their leatage so green, 
Which the sullen old year with his autumn blasts beat 
From their branches and downward cast dead at their feet. 
Yet, though robbed of their summer adornments, how grand 
In their massive proportions the forest trées stand ! 
Moored deep in the earth, still erect are their forms, 
Though against them have beaten a thousand wild storms. 
And the ponderous arches of nature’s own shrine 
Spring upward with never a keystone to bind, 
Supporting, it seems, the blue dome overhead, 
Against which the branchlets like tracery spread. 
But our minds need not dwell on such fancies alone, 
When around us in wildest profusion are strewn 
The treasures of nature, more wondrously wrought 
Than those that neath Ormus’ dark waters are sought ; 
More marvellous beauty lies hidden in them 
Than men toil to unprison from India’s rough gem. 
Their cost is the seeking, a glance of the eye 
On the shadowy sides of the tree trunks close by, 
Which dial each sunshiny hour on the ground ; 
And where point the shadows, there too, are they found; 
On yonder gray rocks, on all things that decay, 
The mosses and lichens their beauties display. 
And the fungi, so queer and fantastic, are seen 
In every shape, of all colors but green. 
Here, springing from stumps old and rotting, are shelves, 
Brown, scarlet, or white, as if built by the elves; 
There cushions and stools are strewn over the ground, 
And puffballs and earth-stars are scattered around. 
Some like nests filled with eggs, or like vases appear, 
And others like corals or antlers of deer, 
Fallen branches and leaves it delights them to deck 
With curious patterns, perhaps a mere speck, 
Or broad-spreading wart of the cankerous Spheria, 
Or a velvety carpet unrolled by the Steria— 
Most delicate lace-work—or Irpex’s frill, 
To imitate which would defy human skill. 
. The recluses of nature, they love best to dwell 
In the dark and damp woods, like the monk in his cell. 
The mosses and lichens, too, love the damp shade, 
And the wet, frosty season, when other plants fade. 
All shrivelled and crisp through the summer they lie, 
As if dead, while the gay, floral train passes by ; 
But when touched by the autumn’s white crystalline dew 
