A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose, Haunting my garden that you once loved well: Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close, And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell Your loveliness was fairer than a dream! But now your pride of beauty is all gone, And like some poor sad penitent you seem, Whose drooping head but hides a visage wan And wasted by the coldness of the world. Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, Within your petals lies a tear impearled; I hear you to my garden say good-bye. A sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow Hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow? ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON INDIAN SUMMER Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under the moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer. Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless. Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them. SARA TEASDALE "FROST TO-NIGHT" Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will. Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still." Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,--the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along. In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ..." Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. EDITH M. THOMAS NOVEMBER NIGHT Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall. ADELAIDE CRAPSEY THE SNOW-GARDENS