Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

O Spirit Of The Summertime! Bring Back The Roses To The Dells; The Swallow From Her Distant Clime, The Honey-bee From Drowsy Cells. Bring Back The Friendship Of The Sun; The Gilded Evenings, Calm And Late, When Merry Children Homeward Run, And Peeping Stars Bid Lovers Wait. Bring Back The Singing; And The Scent Of Meadowlands At Dewy Prime;- Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summertime!