An Autumn Treasure-Trove.

'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame     Hangs on the maple bough;     And June is the faded flower of a name;     The thin hedge hides not a singer now.     Yet rich am I; for my treasures be     The gold afloat in my willow-tree.     Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,     Girded with blue and pearl,     Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;     As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,     She sings while her soul brooding tearfully     Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.     All day pure white and saffron at eve,     Clouds awaiting the sun     Turn them at length to ghosts that leave     When the moon's white path is slowly run     Till the morning comes, and with joy for me     O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.     The lilacs that blew on the breast of May     Are an old and lost delight;     And the rose lies ruined in his careless way     As the wind turns the poplars underwhite,     Yet richer am I for the autumn; see     All my misty gold in the willow-tree.