Fading Autumn

Th' autumnal glories all have passed away;

  The forest-leaves no more in hectic red

Give glowing tokens of their brief decay,

  But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread,

  Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead;  

       

The naked trees stretch out their arms all day,

  And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend head

As if for some new covering to pray.

  Come, WINTER, then, and spread thy robe of white

Above the desolation of this scene;         

  And when the sun with gems shall make it bright,

Or, when its snowy folds by midnight’s queen

  Are silvered o’er with a serener light,

We ’ll cease to sigh for summer’s living green.

                                                         ~Mrs. E. C. Kinney