I walked alone in depths of Autumn woods;
The ruthless winds had left the maple bare;
The fern was withered, and the sweetbrier's breath
No longer gave its fragrance to the air. The barberry strung its coral beads no more;
The thistle-down on gauzy wings had flown;
And myriad leaves, on which the Summer wrote
Her blushing farewell, at my feet were strown. A loneliness pervaded every spot;
A gloom of which my musing soul partook;
All Nature mourns, I said; November wild
Hath torn the fairest pages from her book. But suddenly a wild bird overhead
Poured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet,
It seemed to bring me back the skies of May,
And wake the sleeping violets at my feet. Then long I pondered o'er the poet's words,
"The loss of beauty is not always loss, "
Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain,
And gave me strength to bear again my cross. O murmuring heart! Thy pleasures may decay,
Thy faith grow cold, thy golden dreams take wing;
Still in the realm of faded youth and joy,
Heaven kindly leaves some bird of hope to sing.