By E. G. CHARLESWORTH.
The primrose and the violet,
The bloom on apricot and peach,
The marriage-song of larks in heights,
The south wind and the swallow’s nest;
All born of spring, I once loved best.
But now the dying leaf and flower,
The frost wind moaning in the pane,
The robin’s plaintive latter song,
The early sunset in the west;
All born of autumn, I love best.
Tell me, my heart, the reason why
Thy pulse thus beats with things that die;
Is it thine own autumnal sheaves?
Is it thine own dead fallen leaves?
—_London Sunday Magazine._