Bush, Olivia Ward
|The Moaning -- of -- The Tide|
|To the Memory -- of -- William Lloyd Garrison|
The Autumn leaves, rich golden-tinted leaves,
Have fallen, and all barren lie the fields,
For, t'is the Reaping-time, when full-grown sheaves
Are gathered in, and kindly Nature yields
Her choicest gifts, while Nature's children share
The Autumn Glory, flooding vale and hill,
And thus the man, with life so full, so rare,
Ripe, in his Autumn time, sleeps calm and still.
How fearlessly, how fervently he wrought!
While from his lips fell truth like scattered grain,
Enriching all the field of human thought,
Restoring faith to human hearts again.
Now, o'er our memories the mellow glow,
Of all his love, of all his words and deeds
Shines brightly, and t'is ours to feel and know
That he who pled our cause, who knew our needs
Has left with with us the golden-tinted leaves
Of hope, such hope as made his life complete,
That we, like him may bring our Autumn sheaves,
And lay them at the Master-Reaper's feet.