No bird recalls the melodies of June, 
No flower its sweets, no bough its rustling shades! 
Through all the roofless grove the sun stares in 
With unobstructed gaze, and as we pass, 
Twin shadows glide beside us arm in arm, 
With silent footfall on the dying leaves. 
When now we pause, ’tis not with jocund lips 
To swell the sylvan gladness, but to blend 
Our sigh with nature’s, as in funeral stole, 
Forlorn she follows Autumn’s passing bier. 
And, dearest, while I mark thy downcast eyes, 
A mist is stealing o’er their wonted smiles ; 
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And from their azure depths the silver rain 
Falls audibly upon the rustling leaves. 
Yet know, sweet mourner, and assured, take heart, 
That ’neath these russet cerements, not in death, 
But quick quiescence, sleep the hopes of Spring! 
No seed, no germ, no bulb of vanished flower, 
No folded bud in all the bosky wild, 
Is numbered with the dying or the dead: 
Nay, in the palsied heart of these bare trees, 
Life’b lingering pulse, though faint and cold, still beats. 
A few brief months, and we will stand again 
On the green summit of this forest knoll; 
And list, enchanted, to the flying harps, 
That fill the leafy aisles with vernal joy. 
Before our steps the velvet sward again 
Shall spread its sun-flecked shadows, and full oft 
