16NORTH WIND IN OCTOBERIn the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
16NORTH WIND IN OCTOBERIn the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.
In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;
From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:
The beech scatters her ruddy fire;
The lime hath stripped to the cold,
And standeth naked above her yellow attire:
The larch thinneth her spire
To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.
Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.
Out of the golden-green and white
Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright
In the forest of flame, and wave aloft
To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.
But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,
As the harrying North-wind beareth
A cloud of skirmishing hail
The grievèd woodland to smite:
In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,
Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,
And whistleth to the descending
Blows of his icy flail.
Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,
And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight
He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.