How tired we feel, my heart and I; Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let So tired, so tired, my heart and I; It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sun set from the sky: "Dear Love, you 're looking tired," he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head; 'Tis now we 're tired, my heart and I. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm, Till each quick breath ends in a sigh Suppose the world brought diadems T SHE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill; The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side; In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. Y mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss · Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. NE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care: Fashioned so slenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; All that remains of her Make no deep scrutiny Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still for all slips of hers, Wipe those poor lips of hers Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses: Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Or the black flowing river: |