To Fall

Sad-Hearted spirit of the solitudes,     Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!     Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom     Of tawny twilights; burdened with perfume     Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;     And all the beauty of the fire-kissed     Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,     Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.     I think of thee as seated 'mid the showers     Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers,     The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June     Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune     A singer gives her sours wild melody,     Watching the squirrel store his granary.     Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee:     Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back;     One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black;     Upon thy palm one nestling check, and sweet     The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.     Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?     A heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours?     A cricket dirging days that soon must die?     Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?