Give my love to Mrs. Ripley and the Archon, and to
the two Charleses, and believe me, as always, your
friend,
G.W.C.
On the next page I write a little song, which you
shall print if you think it worth the space.
Nameless and dateless if you please.
AUTUMN SONG
The gold corn in the field
And the asters in the meadow,
And the heavy clouds that yield
To the hills a crown of shadow,
Mark the ending of the Summer,
And the Autumn coming in,
A crimson-eyed new-comer,
Whose voice is cold and thin,
As he whispers to the flowers,
“Lo, all this time is ours.”
I remember, long ago,
When the soft June days were
wasted,
That the Autumn and the snow
In the after-heats were tasted;
For the sultry August weather
Burned the freshness from
the trees,
And the woods and I, together,
Mourned the Winter, that must
freeze
The silver singing streams
Which fed our Summer dreams.
Through the yellow afternoon
Rolls the wagon harvest-laden,
And beneath the harvest moon
At the husking sings the maiden;
While without the winds are flowing
Like long aerial waves,
And their scythe-sharp breath is mowing
The flowers upon the graves.
When the husking is all o’er
The maiden sings no more.
To ——
Thy spirit was a flexile harp, whereon
The moonlight fell like delicatest
air,
Thro’ thee its beauty flowing into
tone
Which charmed the silence
with a sound as rare.
Thou peaceful maid! the music then I heard,
Whose influence had moulded
thy soft eyes
To their deep tone of tenderness:
O! bird,
Whose life is fed with thine
own melodies.
CONCORD, Oct. 25, 1845.
My dear Friend,—My Concord days are numbered,
but before I go I should like to write you again,
although it is not impossible that I may come here
again next year. The autumn since I saw you has
fulfilled the promise of the day I left Brook Farm—bright,
clear, and cool. On Wednesday, the day was so
remarkably beautiful that, having nothing especial
to do, and seeing that Ole Bull was to give another
concert, we walked to Boston and heard him once more,
I fear for the last time; and walked back again the
next morning. The air was very still and bright,
and cold enough to spur us on, without an unpleasant
chill.
I was very glad to part with Ole Bull having my first
impressions deepened and strengthened. The wonder
with which I heard him in New York had subsided, and
I gave myself, or rather he drew me, wholly to his
music. It seems as if he improvised with the
orchestra as a poet would at the piano. The music
is full of every sort of movement and variety, but
has great unity of character, and constantly suggests
