The melancholy days have come, Which Mr. Bryant sings,Of wailing winds and naked woods, And other cheerful things.
The robin from the glen has flown, And there Matilda J.Now roams in quest of autumn leaves To press and put away.
Leaves in the sere, to school-girls dear, Are found where’er one looks,On hill, in vale, in wood, in field, But mostly in my books.
If I take up my Unabridged Some curious word to scan,Rare leaves are sped of green and red, Or maybe black and tan.
The book of books–my Bible–now I scarcely dare to touch,Lest it bring grief to some rare leaf– Ash, maple, oak, or such.
And if upon the lounge I lie To read while I repose,Lo! arid leaves in dusty sheaves Sift down upon my clothes.
“No more,” I swear in empty air, But straight invoke a broom,And soon St. Bridget comes and sweeps The rubbish from the room.
O autumn leaves, rare autumn leaves, So lovely out-of-doors,Strew the wild wood (you could or should), But muss not Christian floors!
Too late I know a solemn truth I did suspect before:These leaves that autumn branches bear Are an autumnal bore.
Charles H. Webb