A SONG OF REGRET.

In the southward sky The late swallows fly, The low red willows In the river quiver; From the beeches nigh Russet leaves sail by, The tawny billows In the chill wind shiver; The beech-burrs burst, And the nuts down-patter; The red squirrels chatter O'er the wealth disperst.

Yon carmine glare Would the west outdare;— 'Tis the Fall attire Of the maples flaming. In the keen late air Is an impulse rare, A sting like fire, A desire past naming. But the crisp mists rise And my heart falls a-sighing,— Sighing, sighing That the sweet time dies!