I’ve read of one in story, who had laid His young love in the grave. The seasons came And went, like shadows over him, for years; And then the world grew brighter, and he heard A melody in nature’s goings on; And a sweet cousin’s voice, that tempted him Into the sunshine and the air, became The music of his happiness, and so He married her. One night she was awake, And gazing on his features as the moon Shone through the casement on them. A large tear Stole from his eye, and as his lips were stirred With the low murmur of his dream, she caught The name of the departed. He awoke, And she reproached him tearfully for love Kept secret in his heart; and then he kissed Her tears away, and told her that his love Was faithfully her own, although in dreams An angel came to him sometimes, and woke A buried thought of one as beautiful. OCTOBER. ‘----To the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering the whole spirit.’ Coleridge. Summer has pleasant seasons, and the spring Comes gaily on the senses; and ’tis sweet To know the places of the shadiest trees, And hunt the scented violet; but when these Have mellowed into autumn, and the flowers Sleep in their fragrant places, ’tis to me A pleasanter and purer time to give Close thought to its forgetfulness, and stray By the serenest wave and greenest grass. October had come in and I went forth To breathe an air like June, and feel the nerve Of the elastic temper which a frost Gives to the sunshine. The transparent veil Of morning’s exhalations had rolled up Into white, silvery streakings, and the sky Looked perfectly and deeply blue between, Like a fixed element, and birds went up And sang invisibly, the heavenly air Wooed them above the earth so temptingly. I never knew the streams so musical, Or saw them half so clear; and for the leaves-- The maples were just turned, and brighter trees Were never by the forest pencil drawn. The hill-sides seemed to slumber, the warm sun Shone on their slopes so softly; and I knew One that was carpeted with moss, and leant To the warm south so fitly, you would look To find Endymion sleeping. ’Twas indeed A pleasant place, and when I came to it And told her, (did I say I was alone?) That it was faery all, and only made For her own lovely rest, she laughingly Proclaimed herself a queen, and with the leaves Bound her transparent temples for a crown, And bade me kneel, and she would grant my boon To half her fairy kingdom.