From The Washington Herald, October 13, 1912. By George Sands Johnson. There are no blossoms left to tell The happy days of Spring! While parting anthems of farewell Through haunted chambers ring. Amid vast shrines where ages dwell In peace and joy, unseen, Deep voices of glad visions well And sparkle through the green. Sweet memory of joyous hours That charm the backward gaze, Clusters around the folded flowers, Still gleam through autumn haze. And as the summer passes by, Where autumn’s shadows brood, Gray specters of dead beauty sigh In solemn solitude. How fleet and strange is fate and time! As life is swept along Through seasons dreary and sublime To join the vanished throng.
To the Passing Seasons