The Red Cloud chief., 1877-10-18
Autumn Poetry.

Autumn Poetry.
You knOw-Or will learn, by and by
-that we never need lose anything
which has really made our life blessed,
except by our own fault. If we have
taken the lOveliness around us into
heart and soul, and not merely glanced
at 1t idly, it has become an immortal
possession; for all true beauty is poured
into our lives out of the heart of Him
who is the Infinitely Beautiful, and
every gift he bestOws is perfect and in.
destructible.
Have you ever thought about the
shading-Off of n season into another
how gradual and delicate it is, and
what a charm it adds to the year? You
cannot tell exactly when midsummer
has passed into autumn, any more than
you can draw a sharp line between the
red and the orange in the rainbow. Ma
ture shades her cOlOrs more exquisitely
than any artist, and it is in this magical
blending that half her poetry is found.
The four seasons make a visible har-
mOny, like four voices so perfectly &C.
cOrdant that you hear them as one in a
song; for there is an eye-music as well
Is that which enters the ear.
Late in August, you come in your
rambles upon some hidden pool of the
woodlands, and find, to your surprise
the water-lilies still awake here and
there; and Oh the margin of the pond,
the most magnificent blossom of mid
summer, the cardinal flower. What a
contrast they make-that pure white
ness, crystal.bOrn, and that inimitable
red, which seems a burst of the intens-
est warmth hid in the bosom of earth!
The white clematis, or virgir's-bOwer
hangs its graceful streamers along the
wOOd-paths, yelling the departing foot
steps of Summer, whom Autumn has
already come to meet, scattering golden
rod about, as an admittance-fee into the
grounds of the dethrOned queen.
Beautiful poems have been written
about the passing of summer into au-
tumn. Mrs. Hemans sings her regret
in one beginning
Thou art bearing hence thy roses,
Glad Summer, fare thee we'll.
Thou art singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell"
"A Still Day in Autumn" by Mr..
Sarah Helen Whitman, takes you into
the dreamy atmosphere of the beautiful
September days. Here are two or three
stanZas of it:
II love to wander through THE woodlands hoary
In the soft light of an autumnaId day.
When Summer gathers up her robes OF glory.
And like q dream OF beauty glides away.
How through each loved, familiar path She ling
ers,
Serenely smiling through the golden mist.
T1nting the wild grape with her dewy fingers
Till the cool M aid turnsto amethyst,
Warm lights are on the sleepy upla IDS waning
Beneath soft Clouds along the horizon rolled,
TIL the slant sunbeams through their fringes
raining
Battle all The hills in melancholy gold"
In one of Alice Carey's songs of the
autumn days, she writes that
summer from her golden collar slips.
And strays through stubble- fields, and means
aloud
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives.
And, steaiing hopeful to some sheltered
bower.
She lies on pillows of yellow leaves.
And tries the old tunes over for an hour"
The poet Whittier paints in glowing
words the flowers that blossom between
summer and fall:
''Along the road side. like the flowers of gold
That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,
Heavy with suns hine. droop, the golden rod:
And the red pennons of the cardinal flower
Hang motionless upon their upright staves."
And LongfellOw addresses autumn as
coming
with banners. by great gales incessant famed
Brighter than b. light ST silks OF Samarcand!
Thu standest, Ike Imperial Charlie na gne,
Upon thy bridge Of gold: Thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions DER the land"
LOwelrs Indian Summer Reverie" is
full of splendid description:
THE birch. most shy and lady like OF trees.
Her poverty. rs best she may, retrieves.
And hints at her foregone gent .iti 8
With some saved relics Vt her wealth OF leaves
The swamp-oak, W tn his roy al purple on,
6lares req IS blood a ross the setting sun,
As one WI o proud, r 10 a fallen fortune cleaves;
He looks . sachem, In red blanket wrapt."
The m a"le-swampsg glow Ike . sunset ses,
Each leaf . ripple with its seperate flush"
Tho woodbine up the elms straight stem aspires
Coiling II. harmless. with autumn fires"
In modern English poets we get, now
and then, a glimpse of glowing color.
TennysOn writes of
Autumn laying here and there
A fiery fuger on the lea ves;"
and tells us how one who watches NAV
THE maple burn itself away"
And Allingham must have seen
something like our autumn cOlOrs be
fore writing this stanza:
Bright yellow. red. and orange.
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian princess
But soon they'll turn to ghosts"
Gazing upon the splendOrs of the au.
tumn woods; we do not wonder that a
poet exclaims,