[Lines naming a landscape painted by Mr. Theodore C. Steele, owned by Mr. Louis C. Gibson.]
ALTHOUGH the fields of summer time are dear
And fair the days of sunshine-flooded hours
We would not always have the summer here,—
We tire of flowers.
Let come a short October afternoon,
Or yet a dreary day November sends;—
A mist hangs o’er the tired earth, and soon
The night descends.
Like some cowled monk grown weary of the world,
The evening creeps along in somber guise,
Her face in misty shadows thickly furled
To hide her eyes.
O heartache of the earth, so near to us
These barren fields have on a sudden grown!
Cool hand of twilight touch us—tremulous,
Sick and alone.
O skies of gray, come often in our need!
Come fall, O mists, efface the marks of tears,—
The lessons of our heartache with us read,
And soothe our fears!
Dear barren field, we lay our hearts on thine,
And leafless shrub, we make thy grief our own;
Come, Spring, and touch our hearts with life divine,
All heartache flown!