MARY TENNEY GRAY.

55

 
A yearning Wish for the old refrains, 
The long hushed songs, and long-lost games 
A waft of new-mown hay at the door^__
The soft sweet-brier's breath once more; 
 
The rare perfume of the cinnamon-rose, 
The breath of all the garden grows; 
The twitter of swallows, cooing of doves, 
And alas! perhaps a sigh for dead-loves! 
 
DEAD LEAVES. 
_____ 
 
DRIFT the dead, leaves gaily by, 
Falling low or-circling high: 
Brilliant maple red as blood, 
Tawny gold of cottonwood, 
Softest bronze of poplar leaf, 
Deepest browns of grass and sheaf. 
 
Youth and verdure both have fled^__
Glory, color^__Death instead
Making merriest ho1iday! 
Just as each will pass away^__
Wildest carnival, ere Lent^__
Robed like reveler Death is sent!