The Death of Autumn
Whenreeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,—but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
Whenreeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,—but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
Whenreeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,—but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?