The maples dropped their withered leaves;
Wan, through the mist, the sunset shone;
And from the upland, bare of sheaves,
The jay's call floated, weird and lone.
No robin's song the orchard stirred;
No oriole flashed from elm to elm;
Nor even the cricket's chirp was heard,
Through all that gray November realm.
The dreary sky, the drifting leaves,
The jay's far-off, funereal strain,
Thrilled me, till, sad as one who grieves
Above his dead, I walked the lane.
When lo! 'mid ferns that, fresh and fair,
Still drooped beneath a sheltering wall
And gave their fragrance to the air,
A crimson clover, sweet and tall!
O heart of joy! O breath of June!
O grace I thought forever fled!
The rose's scent, the robin's tune,
Were wafted from that clover red!
The lane grew pink with apple-blooms,
A paradise of murmuring bees,
And softly, through the maple-glooms,
From sunny meadows stole the breeze!
So night fell, but it seemed not dark;
The wind blew, but it was not chill;
Up rolled the mist till I could mark
The Pleiades gleam above the hill.
"Ah, storm and loss, regret and pain,
Ye are but shades that pass!" I said;
And, turning homeward through the lane,
I plucked and wore the clover red.