GOLDEN-ROD. 



A PATIENT, pensive silence fills the wood, 



Broken by muffled droppings, sad as tears ; 

 On the far hills a purple haze appears, 

 That veils and yet reveals their mournful mood ; 

 Soft mists along the lowlands creep, and brood 

 On lake and river. Through the hush one hears 

 The tuneless drone of insects, lulling fears 

 And hopes alike. A sense half understood, 

 Of something sweet that was and is no more, 

 Stirs in the heart. " Summer is gone," we say. 

 But see, as dreamily she went her way, 

 She dropped the golden sceptre that she bore : 

 Ah, precious symbol of her gracious sway, 

 Bright incarnation of the smile she wore ! 



SEPTEMBER. 



26 



