'T IS little we can look for now;
The summer years are past;
The air is thick with coming snow,
And dead leaves, falling fast.
A lonelier sound is in the wind,
For withered roses left behind.

There was an Indian summer, sweet
With blossoms, faint and few,
When fruits lay ripened at our feet;
But that has faded, too.
Its joy was but the after-glow
Of sunsets crimsoned long ago.

And yet we never plucked the flowers
That budded in our dreams:
Even at the best, this world of ours
Is other than it seems.
A generous world indeed it is, —
Most generous in its promises,

And with a golden promise still,
It lures us travellers on
To death's white steep, the wintry hill
Up which our friends have gone,
And vanished from our mortal sight, —
Thank God! into no starless night.

Faint music from beyond that steep; —
A rose-breath, far and rare: —
So little can we guess! — but deep
Heart's faith is rooted there.
So little, — and yet so much more
Than we have hoped or dreamed before!