254 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



" Was it always Summer, there, of old, 

 At grandfather's? 



Were wheatfields always a sea of gold ? 

 Were meadows but carpets gay, unrolled 

 For the frolic winds to toss and fold ? 

 'Mid oat-sheaves ripe, did shy quails pipe 

 While shadow and sunshine went and came, 

 With a glory that never was twice the same ? 

 On grateful leaves were the warm rains wept 

 While over the prairie the dim dusk crept 

 To grandfather's ? 



"Was it always Autumn in those fair days 

 At grandfather's ? 



Were the woods for ever a golden blaze 

 Of light, half-hidden by amber haze, 

 Through which we walked enchanted ways, 

 Over grasses green, over glistening sheen 

 Of fallen leaves, where the cup-moss grew, 

 And the crisp rime lay in the place of dew ? 

 Were there always scents as of ripened stores 

 Of corns and fruits, from the granery doors 

 At grandfather's ? 



" Was it always Winter cold and white 

 At grandfather's ? 



Did suns set always in crimson light, 

 And stars come, silent, far and bright 

 To make more fair the cloudless night ? 

 Where pine-trees bold fenced out the cold 

 Was there ever a light like the light that glowed 

 From the ruddy pane down the snowy road, 

 Where the warm fire touched the welcoming face, 

 That gave to winter its tenderest grace 

 At grandfather's ? 



