Aberdeen herald. [volume] (Aberdeen, Chehalis County, W.T.) 1886-1917, 1902-10-20
DID,
FAv0RITES
The Death of the Flower

The Death of the Flowers.
The melancholy days have come, the sad
dest of the year,
or wailing winds, and naked woods, and
meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the holows of the grove, the
autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustic to the eddying gust, and to
the rabbits 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, n beau
teous 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-fower and the violet, they per-
ished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchids died
amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the
aster in the wood.
And the yellow suntower by the brook
in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold
heaven, as falls the plague of
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 wat
ers of the rill.
The southwind searches for the flowers
whose fragrance late he bore,
And signs to find them in the wood and
by the stream no more.
And then 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 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.
IT,. n;,u.. uou.
o hour of all hours, the most blest upon
earth,
Blest hour of our dinners!
The land Of his birth;
The face of his first love; the bills that
he owes;
The twaddle of friends, and venom of
foes;
The sermon he heard when to church he
last went;
The money he borrow'd. the money he
spent;
All of these things man, believe, may
forget,
And not be the worse for forgetting; but
yet
Never, never, oh, never! earth's luckiest
sinner
Hath, unpunish'd. forgotten the hour Of
his dinner!
Indigestion, that conscience Of every bad
stomach,
Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him
with some ache
Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless,
his best ease,
As the Furies once troubled the sleep Of
Orestes.
We may live without poetry, music and
art;
We may live without conscience, and
live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may
live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without
cooks.
He may live without books-what is
knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope-what Is hope
but deceiving?
He may live without love-what ID ra+
sion but pinng?
But where is the man that can live with
out dining?
Owen Meredith.
Hark, bark! the, lark at heavens gate
sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is,
NV lady sweet arise