Mrs. Elizabeth Clementine Kinney (1810–1889)

TH’ AUTUMNAL glories all have passed away;

The forest-leaves no more in hectic red

Give glowing tokens of their brief decay,

But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread,

Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead;

The naked trees stretch out their arms all day,

And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend head

As if for some new covering to pray.

Come, WINTER, then, and spread thy robe of white

Above the desolation of this scene;

And when the sun with gems shall make it bright,

Or, when its snowy folds by midnight’s queen

Are silvered o’er with a serener light,

We ’ll cease to sigh for summer’s living green.