To M——

To M——

I passed, one autumn morn, a wanderer in the wood,
His large sade eyes peered on the ground, his feet the dead leaves strewed

And the hazy Indian summer fell on the woodland drear,
And not unlike the wanderer's heart, the world was sad and sear;

But rocks of shining miea, rude specimens of ore,
And curious fossils took my care—of him I thought no more;

When a wail of mortal sorrow through the quivering foliage spread—
Twas a wail that sank into my soul, for thus methought it said:

My life is like a creeping vine, that in the early spring,
[?]s vigorously forth its scious. and these to a yew-tree ccllng,

Which on by one the woodman, unfeeling wretch, hath shorn,
[?] the conscious [?] lie withereed and forlorn;

But fallying from its stupor, one tendril sprung anew,
ANd cntering all its soul in this, slow up the yew-tree grew.

"You cut that branch in twain, and leave the stock to die.
So like the vine, of hope bereft, alone in the world am I."

J. D. H.(?)

1:20, p. 1

12.3.1859