The Bird of Autumn: To ----

LATE bird who singest now alone,
When woods are silent, and the sea
Breathes heavily and makes a moan,
Faint prescience of woe to be, —
A sweetness hovers in thy voice
Spring knows not; autumn is thy choice.

Dear bird, what tender song is thine !
Born out of loss and nursed in storm ;
A messenger of grace divine
Enfolded in thy feathery form.
So com’st thou, darling, with the close
Of summer, lovelier than her rose.

Annie Fields .