LATE AUTUMN
BEHOLD! the maize fields set their pennons free,In this rich golden ending of the year;And asters bloom upon the sunny lea,Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere.Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-headLifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells,And cardinals ring out a richer chime;—A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cellsA farewell taste of honeyed spring, for deadIs all the clover on its fragrant bed;—And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.Sometimes across the still and cheerless night,The farewells of the flocks are softly heard,As to the warm savannahs they take flight,Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird.And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss,Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land;Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns playedBy tearful maidens of a funeral band.Of all the wealth of Autumn now is leftBut that to wound the memory; bereftIs he who wanders in this barren glade.No more I linger in the Lydian wood,And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;No more the gloaming seems or warm or goodWhen everything of joy has taken wing.I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;I walk an endless line of cypress shade;I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,When everything of loveliness light madeDissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.The reaper Winter cometh on apace,And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,—Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leafFrom the poor bough that treasured it in hope;—The chilling mists unroll their purple folds,Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope,Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief,Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf,And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.
BEHOLD! the maize fields set their pennons free,In this rich golden ending of the year;And asters bloom upon the sunny lea,Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere.Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-headLifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells,And cardinals ring out a richer chime;—A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cellsA farewell taste of honeyed spring, for deadIs all the clover on its fragrant bed;—And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.Sometimes across the still and cheerless night,The farewells of the flocks are softly heard,As to the warm savannahs they take flight,Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird.And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss,Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land;Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns playedBy tearful maidens of a funeral band.Of all the wealth of Autumn now is leftBut that to wound the memory; bereftIs he who wanders in this barren glade.No more I linger in the Lydian wood,And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;No more the gloaming seems or warm or goodWhen everything of joy has taken wing.I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;I walk an endless line of cypress shade;I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,When everything of loveliness light madeDissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.The reaper Winter cometh on apace,And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,—Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leafFrom the poor bough that treasured it in hope;—The chilling mists unroll their purple folds,Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope,Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief,Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf,And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.
BEHOLD! the maize fields set their pennons free,In this rich golden ending of the year;And asters bloom upon the sunny lea,Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere.Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-headLifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells,And cardinals ring out a richer chime;—A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cellsA farewell taste of honeyed spring, for deadIs all the clover on its fragrant bed;—And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.
BEHOLD! the maize fields set their pennons free,
In this rich golden ending of the year;
And asters bloom upon the sunny lea,
Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere.
Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head
Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells,
And cardinals ring out a richer chime;—
A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells
A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead
Is all the clover on its fragrant bed;—
And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.
Sometimes across the still and cheerless night,The farewells of the flocks are softly heard,As to the warm savannahs they take flight,Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird.And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss,Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land;Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns playedBy tearful maidens of a funeral band.Of all the wealth of Autumn now is leftBut that to wound the memory; bereftIs he who wanders in this barren glade.
Sometimes across the still and cheerless night,
The farewells of the flocks are softly heard,
As to the warm savannahs they take flight,
Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird.
And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss,
Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land;
Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played
By tearful maidens of a funeral band.
Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left
But that to wound the memory; bereft
Is he who wanders in this barren glade.
No more I linger in the Lydian wood,And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;No more the gloaming seems or warm or goodWhen everything of joy has taken wing.I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;I walk an endless line of cypress shade;I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,When everything of loveliness light madeDissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.
No more I linger in the Lydian wood,
And wait Silenos by each dell and spring;
No more the gloaming seems or warm or good
When everything of joy has taken wing.
I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain;
I walk an endless line of cypress shade;
I wreck upon the tossing coast of night,
When everything of loveliness light made
Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain,
That sweeps interminably o'er the plain,
And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.
The reaper Winter cometh on apace,And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,—Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leafFrom the poor bough that treasured it in hope;—The chilling mists unroll their purple folds,Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope,Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief,Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf,And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.
The reaper Winter cometh on apace,
And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod,
And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,—
Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod.
The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf
From the poor bough that treasured it in hope;—
The chilling mists unroll their purple folds,
Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope,
Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief,
Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf,
And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.