A CROSS the half-clad branches 

The softened sunlight falls, 

Its mellow glory slanting 

Through stately forest halls. 

The amber green of spring-time 

Folds over barren sprays, 

Above its faint bloom floating 

A dream of summer days, 

And like an angel's blessing 

The passing wind's rich psalm 

Swells through the breathless silence, 

And dies away in calm. 

Beneath our feet are peeping 

The heralds of the spring, 

Wind-flower and daisy lifting 

Their starry blossoming. 

They whisper of the summer, 

Of fair June's perfect day; 

The grace of incompleteness 

Is thine, beloved May. 

Thine is the tender promise 

Of coming leaf and bloom, 

And thine the rare heart choral 

Of earth and heaven in tune. 

Now fainter falls the sunlight; 

Within the western sky 

The crimson sunset roses 

Bloom out, and fade, and die. 

Around us, gray and gloomy, 

The forest shadows fall; 

From branch to branch the song-birds 

Pipe low their goodnight call; 

And still the beauty lingers 

Within the deepening shade; 

And still the great wind organ 

By angel hands is played.

—H. M. Hastings.