[Harvard Monthly 3.1 (October, 1886), 14]

THE MOOD OF AN AUTUMN DAY.

I plucked one autumn day
Of golden rod a spray
To give to my beloved who loved it dear.
The pines were moaning by,
My heart with them did sigh
To see the gold had gone, the stalk was sere.

The deep blue sky above
Denied to me all love
While I looked up to it in wistful prayer.
The river, dull and gray,
Would not a moment stay
From me to lift the burden of sad care.

Although they spoke to me
No word of sympathy,
And rustled, moaned, and whispered each to each,
Their voices moaning sad
My heart did render glad
With joy too true for utterance in speech.

Then walked I fast away
The while the trees did sway,
Vibrating tremblingly in cadence slow.
The spray of golden rod
I offered to the god
Who wraps the field and wood in fur of snow.