Summer Days Are Over

    "Summer days are over,
    Summer work is done;
    Harvests have been gathered
    Gayly one by one.
    Now the feast is eaten,
    Finished is the play;
    But one rite remains for
    Our Thanksgiving-day.

    "Best of all the harvest
    In the dear God's sight,
    Are the happy children
    In the home to-night;
    And we come to offer
    Thanks where thanks are due,
    With grateful hearts and voices,
    Father, mother, unto you."

Louisa May Alcott

Louisa May Alcott was an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel 'Little Women' and its sequels 'Little Men' and 'Jo's Boys.' Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, she grew up in Massachusetts. She was an abolitionist and a feminist and was active in both the Transcendentalist and suffragist movements. Alcott began writing to support her family and went on to publish numerous works that have had a lasting impact on American literature.

Louisa May Alcott

He That Is Down Need Fear No Fall

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Fragments from "Under The Lilacs".

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Sweetest Of Maidens, Oh, How Can I Tell

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Little Drops Of Water

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

English

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Sweet, Sweet Days Are Passing

    Sweet, sweet days are passing
    O'er my happy home.
    Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
    Cold are the days when winter comes again.
    When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
    Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink ;
    Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
    Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."

Louisa May Alcott

Thanksgiving.

The Autumn hills are golden at the top,
    And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme;
The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop
    One after one into the lap of time.

Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse,
    And forest boughs a fading glory wear;
No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops,
    Silence and peace are brooding everywhere.

The long day of the year is almost done,
    And nature in the sunset musing stands,
Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun,
    Looking abroad o'er yellow harvest lands:

O'er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines
    With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out
Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines
    Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy's shout;

Where the tired ploughman his d...

Kate Seymour Maclean

From Our Happy Home

    From our happy home
    Through the world we roam
    One week in all the year,
    Making winter spring
    With the joy we bring,
    For Christmas-tide is here.


    Now the eastern star
    Shines from afar
    To light the poorest home;
    Hearts warmer grow,
    Gifts freely flow,
    For Christmas-tide has come.


    Now gay trees rise
    Before young eyes,
    Abloom with tempting cheer;
    Blithe voices sing,
    And blithe bells ring,
    For Christmas-tide is here.


    Oh, happy chime,
    Oh, blessed time,
    That draws us all so near!
    "Welcome, dear day,"
    All creatures say,
    For Christmas-tide is here.

Louisa May Alcott

In The Garret

    Four little chests all in a row,
    Dim with dust, and worn by time,
    All fashioned and filled, long ago,
    By children now in their prime.
    Four little keys hung side by side,
    With faded ribbons, brave and gay
    When fastened there, with childish pride,
    Long ago, on a rainy day.
    Four little names, one on each lid,
    Carved out by a boyish hand,
    And underneath there lieth hid
    Histories of the happy band
    Once playing here, and pausing oft
    To hear the sweet refrain,
    That came and went on the roof aloft,
    In the falling summer rain.


    "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
    I look in with loving eyes,
    For folded here, with well-known care,
    A goodly gathering lies,
 ...

Louisa May Alcott

The Reapers' Song.

The harvest is nodding on valley and plain,
    To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield;
Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain;
    'Tis ripe to our hand!--to the field--to the field!
If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile,
Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile.
Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray,
We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!

With his garland of poppies red August is here,
    And the forest is losing its first tender green;
Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year,
    And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene.
To the field!--to the field! whilst the Summer is ours
We will reap her ripe corn--we will cull her bright flowers.
Then, a largess! a largess! ...

Susanna Moodie

Oh My Heart Is Sad And Weary

    'Oh my heart is sad and weary
    Everywhere I roam,
    Longing for the old plantation
    And for the old folks at home.'

Louisa May Alcott