roETRIri,
SEPTEMBER.
THE morns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold, The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold; And over where my heart is, beneath the Southern sun, The shearing's nearly over and the spring's begun.
The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again, • They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth .green plain, And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keep A flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.
Now later comes the sunshine, awl sooner come the-dark f The barefoot newsboys shiver ; the ladies in the Park , Wear turnabout their shoulders, for autumn winds-are keen, And rusty, curling edges fleck the chestnuts' green.
The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blue Between us and the distance ; the street-lamps shining through- Wear each a golden halo, diaphanous and fair— But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air.
More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamond, It bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond,
It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bell-bird notes, With mating-calls and answers from a thousand throats.. „ • , The lamps are lit in London, and in their searching light The smiling anxious faces look very strained and white: And over where ray heart is, twelve thousand miles, away,
The dewy grass is glinfing at The Invalg.efslen-
Doaarnaa. MancaLLan,
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