TO A WILD ROSE. Wild Rose at night, When sets the sun, thy petals sink to rest, Then shadows creep Across the mossgrown moor, and with a sigh To me thou art The perfect model of a transient joy; I would forget The long ago when first I saw thy face, It mirrored then A thousand thoughts, each from a placid calm Those hopes are dead, As in their last embrace thy red leaves close It is the hidden, not the perfect rose That bears its head. And in the past The dreams that were are wrapped within the cloud Is gone at last. -Harvard Advocate. AUTUMN. The asters bloom in the tangled grass, And nod in deep concern, For a gay little breeze has lost his way, And is caught amid the fern. The wind comes whispering down the hills; The trees sway to and fro, A murmur breathes from the solemn pines The clematis hangs from the sun-kissed fence; A bird in a coat of dun, In circles wide, skims over the field, And is off for the land of sun. The blue of the sky has the softer hue The brook in a glint of shimmering light, Has changed its laugh for a sadder strain, -Cornell Era. |