TO A WILD ROSE.

Wild Rose at night,

When sets the sun, thy petals sink to rest,
Folded as though in prayer across thy breast
In sweet delight.

Then shadows creep

Across the mossgrown moor, and with a sigh
The wind comes dreaming from a cloudless sky
Upon thy sleep.

To me thou art

The perfect model of a transient joy;
The first fair love that charms the growing boy,
And stirs his heart.

I would forget

The long ago when first I saw thy face,
Upturned and lovely with a perfumed grace
That haunts me yet.

It mirrored then

A thousand thoughts, each from a placid calm
Which threw its image with a throbbing charm
That glowed again.

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
Of riper thought; and that to which we bowed

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
In music soft and slow.

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
That Indian summer brings.
From the roadway near I hear a voice,
And anon a church bell rings.

The brook in a glint of shimmering light,
The flowers and reeds among,

Has changed its laugh for a sadder strain,
The refrain of a song that is sung.

-Cornell Era.

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