October. 
87 
AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
Those few pale Autumn flowers, 
How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the summer store, 
How lovelier far! 
And why ? They are the last ! 
The last ! the last ! the last ! 
Oh ! by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirred 
That whisper of the past! 
Pale flowers ! pale, perishing flowers ! 
Ye’re types of precious things ; 
Types of those better moments, 
That flit, like life's enjoyments, 
On rapid, rapid wings ! 
Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That time the fastest spends), 
Last tears in silence shed, 
Last words half-uttered, 
Last looks of dying friends. 
Who but would fain compress 
A life into a day ?— 
The last day spent with one 
Who, ere the morrow's sun, 
Must leave us, and for aye ? 
