To L. W. J.- On Her Birthday Poem by Annie Adams Fields

WHEN the breath of autumn comes
First, to say the summer's done,
When the birds their leafy homes
Rifle of the seed and cone,
While the yellow sun lies warm
On the apple and the farm,
And the perfect grass is gay
With hawkweed, as with flowers of May,
When the early morn is bright
And all things wear the tender light
Love wears before it vanisheth, --
I say, dear friend, this is like thee,
So plenteous art thou and so free;
Thy good cheer sorrow banisheth;
And yet a softened gleam doth rest,
Upon thee, for upon thy breast
Many a wintry storm hath pressed;
Soon thou knowest the birds shall cease,
And Love that gave them give thee peace.