The Bee In Autumn.

—Sarah Doudnet.

OVER rich acres flushed crimson with clover,

Over soft purple of hollows and fells,

Hums the wild bee, like a busy brown rover,

Searching for sweets in the blue heather-bells.

Hushed are the bird-notes in forests and hedges,

Golden leaves lie in the clefts of the hill;

Only the stream babbles on to the sedges,

Only the honey-bee sings to us still.

Quivering lights with the deep shadows mingle,

Plumes of tall braken grow yellow and brown;

Over the thyme-scented meadow and dingle

Hangs the white mist when the sun has gone down.

Stillness, as if the whole world lay a-sleeping,

Blends with the sweetness that breathes of decay;

Solemnly fair, and too peaceful for weeping,

Autumn sits watching her days glide away.

Yet though the wealth of the summer is over,

And the glad songs of the minstrels are dumb,

Still the wild bee, like a busy brown rover,

Fills the calm air with his musical hum.

So, when the brief year of lifetime is waning,

God’s lowly workers will treasure its hours;

Cheerfully toiling, and patiently gaining

Sweetness and strength from the last autumn flowers.


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