O ! nothing earthy save the ray 



(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, 

 As in those gardens where the day 



Springs from the gems of Circassy/* 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



NOVEMBER 



A FTER a night of high winds and drenching rain, the 

 Autumn morn breaks fair indeed, setting before us 

 the dazzling brightness of its rain-washed golden glories. 

 The trees' frail foliage is seen in the morning light to have 

 fallen very profusely and close pressed to the sodden earth, 

 making path and roadway a mosaic pavement of many 

 tints of gold. And this beautiful change is presented to 

 us year by year, long centuries before, long after, Dante 

 wrote 



" Come d'autunno si levan le foglie, 



L'una appresso dell' altra, infin che '1 rame 

 Rende alia terra tutte le sue spoglie." 



The green tint of Summer, with its many varying shades, 

 never palls upon us, neither do the glowing tints of this 

 season, touching, if one may so express it, the whole gamut 

 of red, gold, and brown. In sooth, these morns are fair, 

 awaking with all the seeming brightness of Summer, although 

 it is the late Autumn which we behold. To-day, above us 

 spreads a sky of dazzling blue, clear and shimmering as a 

 lustrous sapphire, albeit a sky emptied of the skimming 

 swallows. Yet to take the place of our Summer birds 

 appear other birds of passage, heralding Winter, bringing 

 frost upon their wings; redwings and fieldfares we now 



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