Oh, the glory of the days When the misty, golden haze, Of the autumn-time is hanging Over all our earthly ways; What a joy to see it rest On each vale and mountain crest, Like a gossamer extending From the east unto the west.
Oh, the spicy tang and sweet, Of the wafting winds that meet From the lowlands and the highlands, All these matchless days to greet ; How delightful, rich and rare, Are the odors which they bear, Scenting robes of night and morning For the season’s queen to wear.
Oh, the myriad dainty hues Of the asters, so profuse, Fringing fields and wayside places With their sprays of mauves and blues; How entrancingly they blend With the goldenrods that lend, Many flaming, yellow torches To illumine Summer’s end.
If you could speak, old lace, Of time and deed and place, What stories we should hear Of days long past or near. How heads bent low in thought, While patient fingers wrought In intricate design, Your pattern bold and fine.
How eyes gave out, and age Picked up youth’s scornful gage And in your meshes wove The mark of one who strove, Till she was vanquished sore, And saw, and wove no more.
If you could speak, old lace, Of forms you helped to grace, What stories you could tell Of bride and wedding bell; Of old loves and of new— Of false loves and of true; Of joys life may retain, Though sad hearts break in pain.
She gropes along the lofty road, The lonely road of age; The friends she loved in youth no more Her pangs of grief assuage; They stopped one at a time beside The long trail left behind; She mounts alone at eighty-odd, Halt—deaf, and nearly blind.
She dimly sees the younger folk Go dancing on their way, And catches faint, far echoes of Their mirth, from day to day; But life, for her, has lost its joy, Its laughter and its zest; She meekly waits for death to come And bring its promised rest.
They suffer all the pangs of hell, And sip the dregs of human woe, Who love, and are not loved as well.
When first they hear the final knell, Of hopes destroyed at one blow, They suffer all the pangs of hell.
The valiant strive their grief to quell, To cover wounds they dare not show, Who love and are not loved as well.
No matter in what land they dwell, Or where the broken-hearted go, They suffer all the pangs of hell.
While seeking balm that will dispel Their miseries, that dailv grow; Who love, and are not loved as well.
When love is born is hard to tell, When love is dead, the heart will know; They suffer all the pangs of hell, Who love, and are not loved as well.
Lilies Are swaying chalices Of glistening alabaster, From which both men and bees sip Nectar.
When the corn’s in tassel, Walk through the rows, And hear the blades whisper As the wind blows; Of tall, plumed lovers Who bend to woo, Silken clad ladies As true knights do.
When the corn’s in tassel The brown bees come, To sing in the chorus With musical hum; While butterflies flashing In raiment gay, Attend the corn maidens On their bridal day.
When the corn’s in tassel, The fireflies bring Lamps for the service, And gold for the ring; While moths and beetles In costumes queer, Come to the weddings From far and near.
When roses bloom My senses throb with keen delight; When roses bloom Their beauty soon dispels the gloom Of cares that worry and affright; On wings of joy my soul takes flight, When roses bloom.
Today my soul is longing For the odor of the pines, For the aromatic smells Springing up from hidden wells, Till the air is laden rankly For a mile or so around, With the fragrance of the pine trees And the needles on the ground.
Today my soul is longing For the voices of the pines; For the whisperings that tell How some lovely thing befell, Long ago, beneath the arches Of the great trees standing round, With their branches interlacing And the needles on the ground.
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