THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. 



Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest^ 

 Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. 



Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November- 

 Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. 



Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, 

 Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the- 

 new, 

 Spared the autumn-rose and the garden's group of pan- 

 sies, 

 Late-blown dandelionss and periwinkles blue. 



On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered ; 



Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, 

 Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside 

 them 



Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. 



Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, 

 Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green- 

 Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing 



With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. 



