XIX.
OOCTOBER’S gold is dim—the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village wayThe hedge-row leaves are stamp’d, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall makeA resurrection in the earth and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
OOCTOBER’S gold is dim—the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village wayThe hedge-row leaves are stamp’d, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall makeA resurrection in the earth and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
OOCTOBER’S gold is dim—the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village wayThe hedge-row leaves are stamp’d, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall makeA resurrection in the earth and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
O