DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



touches the minimum. The few belated flowers 

 which have escaped the frost, present a forlorn 

 bedraggled appearance, as they droop and mourn 

 over their departed fellows ; these battered dying 

 remnants give no hope they belong to a glory past, 

 inspiring us with none of the feelings which come 

 with the first forerunners of the early spring. 



THE DEATH OF The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 



Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 

 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 



W. C. BRYANT. 



188 



