The Republican journal., 1902-08-14
"The Closing Scene

The poem reprinted here is said by Eng
lish reviewers to be the most beautiful ever
written in America. 1t was found in an Old
scrapbook with the Introduction stating that
it was said to be the most beautiful poem
ever written in this country. No name of
any author is given.
Within the sober realms of leafess trees,
The russell year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper i'll his hour OF
ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and
bare.
The gray barns looking from their hay
hills,
Ger the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate fails
All sights We're mellowed, and all sounds
Subdued,
The hills seemed farther and the streams
sang low,
AS in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with manya muffled blow.
The embattled forests, erstwhile armed with
gold,
Their banners bright with every martial
hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remOteSt blue.
On Somber wings the vulture tried his
flight;
The dove scarce heard his singing mate S
complaint:
And like star Slow dropping in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale
and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrce-and all was stiller than be-
fore;
Silent til some replying wal Bier blew
His aftern horn, and then was heard no
more.
Where erst the jay within the elm's tall
crest.
Made garrulous trouble around her un-
hedged youth;
And where the oriole hung her Swaying
nest,
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows, clrcling ever NEAL
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
IN early harvest and a plenteous year;
Where every bird that walked the vernal
feast,
shook the sweet slumber from its wings
at morn,
To warn the reaper of the rosy East,
All How was sunless, empty and forlOrn.
Alone from out the stubble piped the quail
And croaked the crow through all the
dreary gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale.
Made echo in the distant cottage loom.
There is no bud no bloom upon the bowers
The spiders moved their thin shrouds
night by night,
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed nolsless out of
sight
Amid all this-in this most dreary ali,
And where the woodbine shed upon the
porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood
Firing the floor with its inverted torch;
Amid all this-the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron. with monoto-
nous tread.
Piled the swift wheels, and with her joyleSS
mlen,
Sat like fate, and watched the flying
thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked
with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen
crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the
stir
OF his thick mantle trailing in the dust
While yet her cheek was bright with sum
Her country summoned, and she gave her
all;
And twice war bowed to her his stable
plume
Regave the sword to rust upon the wall.
Regave the sword, but not the hand that
drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow,
Nor him, who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the dropping wheel
went on,
Like the low murmur of hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips d sad and trem-
ulouS tone
At last the thread was snapped, her head
was bowed;
Life dropped the distatf through her hand
serene,
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful
Shroud:
While death and winter closed the au-
tumn scene.