HERBERT S. UNDERWOOD ’83

  When the forest flames in crimson and gold,
    While the sinking sun seems a molten mass,
  And a beautiful blaze is all the wold,

  The sumach flashes, a banner unrolled,
    And yellow-clad boughs glow like burnished brass,
  When the forest flames in crimson and gold.

  What secrets the listening leaves are told,
    As strollers along worn wood-paths pass,
  And a beautiful blaze is all the wold!

  In the gay, glad light grow wooers bold,
    For there’s brightness e’en in the dark morass,
  When the forest flames in crimson and gold.

  And when she is gently coaxed and cajoled,
    The hues find mirrors in cheeks of the lass,
  And a beautiful blaze is all the wold.

  But still is there one who remains e’er cold
    In the glow of the Indian summer; alas! 
  When the forest flames in crimson and gold,
    And a beautiful blaze is all the wold.

Athenoeum, 1883.

GONDELIED

“LICHEN”

  O’er the deep sighing sea,
  Mirrored as dreams of thee,
    Stars watches keep. 
  Wavelets laugh soft and free,
  Calling my love to me;
    The world’s asleep.

  Far from the day’s dull care,
  Into the moonlight fair,
    Our boat shall speed;
  Songs floating on the air,
  Haste we with music rare,
    Where Love would lead.

  Life’s but a transient dream;
  All things that are or seem,
    Breathe but a day. 
  Come, eyes that on me beam,
  Leave what ye sorrow deem,
    While yet ye may.

Fortnight, 1886.

IN HOLLAND BROWN

RONDEAU

SANBORN GOVE TENNEY ’86

  In holland brown she stands to greet
  Me as I come adown the street,
  The sunlight falling on her hair
  Leaves warm caresses gently there—­
  A picture with true grace replete!

  The roses twining round her feet
  Breathe gentle fragrance rare and sweet,
  She sings a merry rustic air—­
    In holland brown.

  O years that fly so swift and fleet! 
  O storms that ’gainst her window beat! 
  Keep her from harm and tears and care! 
  That future years may find her where
  In days of June we used to meet,
    In holland brown.

Fortnight, 1886.

HYLAS

SANBORN GOVE TENNEY ’86

  Many years have left their shadows on the pathless flow of time;
  Many bards have with soft music sung their lays of ancient rhyme,
  Since the day when rosy Hylas plunged into Scamander’s wave,
  Since the am’rous Naiads bore him where no human arm could save.