I end not far from my going forth 



By picking the faded bhie 

 Of the last remaining aster flower 



To carry again to you. 



ROBERT FROST. 



THE END OF SUMMER 



THE Dandelion sails away, — 

 Some other port for him next spring ; 

 Since they have seen the harvest home. 

 Sweet birds have little more to sing. 



Since from her side the com is ta'en, 

 The Poppy thought to win some praise ; 



But birds sang ne'er a welcome note. 

 So she blushed scarlet all her days. 



Tlie children strip the blackberry bush, 

 And search the hedge for bitter sloe ; 



They bite the sloes, now sweet as plums — 

 After Jack Frost has bit them so. 



'Twas this Jack Frost, one week ago. 



Made watch-dogs whine with fear and cold 



But all he did was make fruits smell, 

 And make their coats to shine like gold. 



No scattering force is in the wind, 



Though strong to shake the leaf from stem 

 The leaves get in the rill's sweet throat, 



His voice is scarcely heard through them. 



