The Poetry Corner

Ichabod

By Robert Fuller Murray

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills The misty twilight atmosphere, In which familiar things appear Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills. The twilight hour a month ago Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, The pearl of all the twenty-four. Erelong the winter gales shall blow, Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze-- And oh, that it were June once more!