THE year grows old; Summer's wild crown of roses

Has fallen and faded in the woodland ways;

On all the earth a tranquil light reposes,

Through the still, dreamy days.

The dew lies heavy in the early morn,

On grass and mosses sparkling crystal-fair;

And shining threads of gossamer are borne

Floating upon the air,

Across the leaf-strewn lanes, from bough to bough,

Like tissues woven in a fairy loom;

And crimson berried bryony garlands glow

Through the leaf-tangled gloom.

The woods are still, but for the sudden fall

Of cupless acorns dropping to the ground,

Or rabbit plunging through the fern-stems tall,

Half startled by the sound.

And from the garden-lawn comes, soft and clear,

The robin's warble from the leafless spray,

The low, sweet Angelus of the dying year,

Passing In light away.