A Dirge - A poem by Ellen P. Allerton

A Dirge.

The wind of autumn blows,
So cold, so cold;
Tim wind of autumn blows,
Dead is the summer rose,
And the withered grass lies rotting on the mould.

The frost creeps round the door,
So still, so still;
The frost creeps round the door,
The cricket sings no more,
No more at twilight pleads the whip-po-wil.

But I hear the owlet's cry,
Forlorn, forlorn;
I hear the owlet's cry,
When the waning moon is high,
And the raccoon's greedy call among the corn.

I mourn the summer dead,
So soon, so soon;
I mourn the summer dead,
With all its glory fled,
As I stand beneath the frosty waning moon.

And I think how life is going^___
So fast, so fast.
I think how life is going,
How swift its tides are flowing,
How we scarcely hail our summer, ere 'tis past.

^__Ellen P. Allerton.