AUTUm DAYS. 
O, SAT not Antnmn’s lovely days 
Are sad, and fall of gloom, 
That all the tnnes her vdld harp plays. 
Are “marches to the tomh.” 
Thongh, with her nimble fingers. May, 
The green earth strews with flowers. 
And June, in all her bright array 
Of roses, decks her bowers, 
Not Summer, with her richest gems. 
And all her golden sheaves. 
Can rival, on their bending stems, 
Our frost-tipped Autumn-leaves. 
Go seek the woods, and see the sun. 
Through quivering leaves look down; 
No need his flery glance to shun. 
He vails his burning frown. 
For now o’er all the earth and sky, 
A pensive beauty glows, — 
A softened radiance from on high. 
No other season knows; 
While every quiet leaf that drops 
So silent through the air, 
And all the tree-crowned mountain tops, 
A glowing beauty wear. 
