Changelings
the ghosts of flowers went sailing
Through the dreamy autumn air,—
The gossamer wings of the milkweed brown,
And the sheeny silk of the thistle-down;
But there was no bewailing,
And never a hint of despair.
From the mountain-ash was swinging
A gray, deserted nest;
Scarlet berries where eggs had been;
Softly the flower-wraiths floated in:
And the brook and breeze were singing
When the sun sank down in the west.