In Autumn

THE aster by the brook is dead,
    And quenched the goldenrod’s brief fire;
The maple’s last red leaf is shed,
    And dumb the birds’ sweet choir.
'T is life’s November, too. How swift
    The narrowing days speed, one by one!
How pale the waning sunbeams sift
    Through clouds of gray and dun!
And as we lose our wistful hold
    On warmth and loveliness and youth,
And shudder at the dark and cold,
    Our souls cry out for Truth.
No more mirage, O Heavenly Powers,
    To mock our sight with shows so fair!
We question of the solemn hours
    That lead us swiftly —“Where?”
We hunger for our lost —in vain!
    We lift our close-clasped hands above,
And pray God’s pity on our pain,
    And trust the Eternal Love.
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