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- THE melancholy days have come,
- Which Mr. Bryant sings,
- Of wailing winds and naked woods,
- And other cheerful things.
- The robin from the glen has flown,
- And there Matilda J.
- Now roams in quest of autumn leaves
- To press and put away.
- Leaves in the sere, to school-girls dear,
- Are found where'er one looks,
- On hill, in vale, in wood, in field,
- But mostly in my books.
- If I take up my Unabridged
- Some curious word to scan,
- Rare leaves are sped of green and red,
- Or maybe black and tan.
- The book of books--my Bible--now
- I scarcely dare to touch,
- Lest it bring grief to some rare leaf--
- Ash, maple, oak, or such.
- And if upon the lounge I lie
- To read while I repose,
- Lo! arid leaves in dusty sheaves
- Sift down upon my clothes.
- "No more," I swear in empty air,
- But straight invoke a broom,
- And soon St. Bridget comes and sweeps
- The rubbish from the room.
- O autumn leaves, rare autumn leaves,
- So lovely out-of-doors,
- Strew the wild wood (you could or should),
- But muss not Christian floors!
- Too late I know a solemn truth
- I did suspect before:
- These leaves that autumn branches bear
- Are an autumnal bore.
- Charles H. Webb
Poets' Corner .
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