Autumn Scents-3

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November woods are bare and still,
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning's chill;
The morning's snow is gone by night;
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie "down to sleep."
I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep
When all wild things lie " down to sleep."
Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of ;'good night."
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie " down to sleep."
November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;
Life's night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can "lay us down to sleep."
Indian Summer: Autumn Poems and Sketches

In nearly every garden we may now see the smoke arising from the burning weeds; all around the air is filled with their aromatic scent; we may hear the hiss and crackle. It is not unpleasant to watch the opal smoke curl upwards through the mist, and, as one looks, one feels the true charm of Tennyson's lines—
"A golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds."
In a corner of the garden a few blooms of the blue gentian I find, yet everywhere smoulders the flame of the lingering tints. The gold of the leaves is given to earlier Autumntide when they stood out, this year in particular, in the most charming vignettes as the trees stood enveloped in the filmy golden haze, glorifying the most prosaic thing; now, this gold, as it were, is almost consumed, but dross and embers remain on the cold hearth of Autumn's furnace!
From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt
In the warmth and glow of my room I sit, the firelight mirroring itself upon the old-world furniture. A fragrance as of spice and cedar is around me. Ah, I remember; a little while ago I lifted the lid of a jar of pot-pourri.

"An old blue jar beneath the old bureau,
Traced with a dragon, quaint in its design,
Wreathed willow leaves and needles of the pine,
Owned once by one in Cathay, long ago.
Whence came the perfume, ling'ring in the room,
Of roses, lavender? The spicy breath
From lifted lid tells of a faith in death,
Love's constancy fills all the twilight gloom!
Sweet old pot-pourri, tales of days gone by—
New tales in old, crisp leaves; though roses die
By thousands, though a hundred summers pass,
Though sands run whole shores through Time's measuring glass,
There will not be a tale so sweet, so pure,
As this jar's fragrant spiced leaves immure!"

From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt