The autumn days return again
And with them Nature’s changing moods.
How lovely does she seem today
As o’er the dreamy fields she broods,
Contented thus to acquiesce
In mystic solitude and rest!
For Summer’s passion now is spent­—
Her strength is weakness at its best.

There is a tenderness that yearns
And seeks expression everywhere­—
Within the woods or open field,
In misty skies or fragrant air.
The heart is strangely moved by pain
Not born of sorrow or of fears,
But, rather, from a hidden spring
Close neighbor to the place of tears.

The sumac lifts her flaming torch
To light the Autumn’s altar fire,
Consuming with its eager flame
Fair Summer’s wealth and heart’s desire.
How freely Nature yields her store
Of gold upon each bending rod,
And offers to the passing breeze
A leafy mantle for the sod.

All through the sunny summer hours
he patient milkweed deftly spun
And stored away her costly silk.
And now in answer to the sun
She clears her looms and sends abroad
All that she has—to gladly give
In sacrifice her summer’s work,
In faith that it but dies to live.

The cornfield, which in other days
So proudly stood with sabers drawn
To clash them wildly in the wind
That swept them in the early dawn,
Has gathered all his soldiers brave
Into an Indian village quaint
Of wigwams, and grotesque tepees,
To rest—for they are tired and faint.

And, strange to say, they take delight
To let their fighting strength go out,
And all their natural beauty fade.
They yield in faith nor know a doubt,
So gladly do they gather there
In weakness—with their strength all shorn,
Their swords surrendered—now they yield
A prize much dearer—golden corn.

Down in the leafy woodland glen,
From giant oak and beeches high,
A wondrous tapestry is hung,
With which the Eastern looms might vie.
For it has colorings most rare,
Of richest tones and softest light.
For there are caught and woven in
The dawn of day and shades of night.

Dim shadows, and the rain clouds dark,
And gorgeous colorings of the west
Displayed in perfect harmony
When evening touches earth with rest,
The paling light of stars and moon,
And leaves all touched by autumn’s frost,
Have all been fitly woven in—
We find again what we have lost.

And while the sacrifice consumed
Devouring all her gifts so fair,
My heart could hear an autumn hymn
Which rose and filled the tranquil air.
So many voices seemed to blend
In harmony—yet each apart,
For each a special message sang
Born from the secret of his heart.

I heard the rushing of the Wind
In mighty gusts go sweeping by.
An ever restless song was his
Which softly died into a sigh.
He made the music of a harp
As through the branches bleak and bare
With restless speed he moved, or stopped
To croon some quiet, soothing air.

And still another song was heard­
The joyous song of running Brook.
Out from his heart he sang his song­—
He knew too well to need a book.
He told of days in early spring
When broad and deep the water flowed,
And silently he moved along
While secretly with joy he glowed.

But through the summer’s scorching heat
He failed and weakened, till at length
He found himself a feeble stream,
Quite shorn of beauty and of strength.
The rocks and stones which formed his bed,
Like trials causing hearts to ache,
Made possible the song he sang
In joy with all—“I break, I break.”