And if her phlox and mignonette
Have heart to blossom by their side;
I wonder if the dear old lane
Still chirps with robins after rain,
And if the birds and banded bees
Still rob her early cherry-trees. . . .

I wonder, if I went there now,
How everything would seem, and how--
But no! not now; there is no way
Back to the Land of Yesterday.


OCTOBER

CEASE to call him sad and sober,
Merriest of months, October!
Patron of the bursting bins,
Reveler in wayside inns,
I can nowhere find a trace
Of the pensive in his face;
There is mingled wit and folly,
But the madcap lacks the grace
Of a thoughtful melancholy.
Spendthrift of the seasons' gold,
How he flings and scatters out
Treasure filched from summer-time!--
Never ruffling squire of old
Better loved a tavern bout
When Prince Hal was in his prime.