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by Emma B. L. S. Dunham

The freshness of Spring has departed,
The languor of Summer has tied,
October holds safe in her keeping
The wealth of the days that have sped.

In the place of the mist of midsummer,
Which held back the sun's ardent ray,
Great ridges of clouds massed in ether
Illume and make perfect the day.

The leaves of the forest, like heroes
Who feel their last hours drawing nigh,
Have summoned the wealth of their being,
To grandly and gallantly die.

The cricket shrills forth his loud chirping,
The wind has a tremulous sound;
A flock of dead leaves from the tree-top
Comes fluttering down to the ground.

The fields and the meadow have yielded
Their harvest of hay and of grain;
The orchards are fragrant with fruitage,
Good store is on hill-side and plain.

O Spring-time! so full of thy promise,
O Summer! so heavy with gain;
Ye've stored in the garner of Autumn
The wealth of the sun and the rain.

Haste, Heart, that hast felt Spring's assurance,
Make growth in the summer of life,
That when the perfected days find thee
Thou mayst with good fruitage be rife.

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