But the beautiful artist had touched him off
With an extra tint or so;
And he held his own very well with the rest,
On which, I am sure, she had done her best,
Dressing each in the fairiest kind of a vest,
Till the forest was all aglow.
There were the willow that grew by the brook,
And the old oak on the hill;
The graceful elm tree down in the swale,
The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale,
The orchard trees clustering over the vale,
And weeds that fringed the rill.
One, she had gilt with a flood of gold,
And one, she had tipped with flame;
One, she had dashed with every hue
That the laughing sunset ever knew,
And one--she had colored it through and through
Russet, all sober and tame.
Now this beautiful artist will only stay
A very few days, and then,
She will finish her gorgeous pictures all,
And hurry away ere the gusty squall
Ruins her work, and the sere leaves fail
Darkly in copse and glen.
Then welcome these pictures, so soon to fade,
While they're fresh, and bright, and new,
For a frosty night, and a gusty day,
And a withering blight are not far away,
So enjoy the beautiful while you may,
It was given, good friend, _for you!_
"LET US PRAY"
[Footnote: A precious memory is associated with these words.
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