Of life and love that are but as these

Dead leaves of Autumn grown withered and dry.

But a spirit haunts in the moon’s pale glow

And all is changed as she sings a strain,

While the night winds hearken and lightly blow

Her loose-bound hair in a raven-rain—

And bear her song to the distant closes,

Where many a longing heart reposes,

Waking old love-dreams that overflow

In a rapturous joy and wistful pain.

Ah, that song ’tis sweet as the pipes of Pan,

Or faint lutes sounding in Arcady

Through the purple dawn,—yea, far sweeter than

The music that wafts from a Southern sea!

Beneath its spell the wastes bloom in flowers,

And back again come the vanished hours,

For she who sings to the soul of man

Is the Autumn spirit of memory.

On The Long Road

Ah, many were they then of yesterday,

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