From out whose darkness comes no ray of light, Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf And beckons toward the verge. Again the path Leads o’er a summit where the sunbeams fall; And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom, Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along. It is said that every one has in some degree a prophetic instinct; that the spirit of man reaching out into the future apprehends more of its destiny than it admits even to itself. If ever this premonition finds expression, it is in poetry. On the following page will be found a gem, torn from the setting of Garfield’s college life, which was published during his senior year, and is equally suggestive: AUTUMN. Old Autumn, thou art here! Upon the earth And in the heavens the signs of death are hung; For o’er the earth’s brown breast stalks pale decay, And ’mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail, And sighing sadly, shout the solemn dirge, O’er Summer’s fairest flowers, all faded now. The winter god, descending from the skies, Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth His coming. Before the driving blast The mountain oak bows down his hoary head, And flings his withered locks to the rough gales That fiercely roar among his branches bare, Uplifted to the dark, unpitying heavens. The skies have put their mourning garments on, And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds. Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow And lie entombed in Winter’s icy grave. Thus passes life. As heavy age comes on, The joys of youth—bright beauties of the Spring— Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night Of death’s chill winter comes. But as the Spring Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter’s waste, And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light, So o’er the tomb the star of hope shall rise And usher in an ever-during day. There is considerable poetic power here. The picture of the mountain oak, with its dead leaves shattered by the November blasts, and its bare branches uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens, is equal to Thomson. This poem, like the one on Memory, is full of sympathy with nature, and a somber sense of the sorrowful side of human nature.