October.
SSWEET Muse and well-beloved, with my declineDeclining, like a rose crushed unawares,Having too early knowledge of decay,Too subtle pleasure to behold the treeShed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wingOf an archangel, dipped in holy dew,To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliestOctober, o’er the many-coloured woods!October! vastlier disconsolateThan Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,And the vermilion fruitage of the brierIs soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seenTenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—The frail and indescribable lovelinessOf a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,Being there only powerful,—while the earthWears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—Then the reflective melancholy soul,—Aimlessly wandering with slow falling footThe heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuageThe cunning humour of his malady,—Loses his painful bitterness, and feelsHis own specific sorrows one by oneTaken up in the huge dolour of all things.O the sweet melancholy of the timeWhen gently, ere the heart appeals, the yearShines in the fatal beauty of decay!When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,Nakedly visible without a cloud,And faintly from the faint eternal blue(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the starWhich evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,And in the cottage windows one by one,With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon,When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood!But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, GodAlone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood,Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme,To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moonShines out in sweet completion circular.For when the sunset hath withdrawn its goldAnd glimmering, like the surceaseOf rich, low melody, erst inaudible streamsFind voices in their still unwearied flow;And winds that have been much above the moorsAnd mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
SSWEET Muse and well-beloved, with my declineDeclining, like a rose crushed unawares,Having too early knowledge of decay,Too subtle pleasure to behold the treeShed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wingOf an archangel, dipped in holy dew,To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliestOctober, o’er the many-coloured woods!October! vastlier disconsolateThan Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,And the vermilion fruitage of the brierIs soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seenTenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—The frail and indescribable lovelinessOf a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,Being there only powerful,—while the earthWears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—Then the reflective melancholy soul,—Aimlessly wandering with slow falling footThe heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuageThe cunning humour of his malady,—Loses his painful bitterness, and feelsHis own specific sorrows one by oneTaken up in the huge dolour of all things.O the sweet melancholy of the timeWhen gently, ere the heart appeals, the yearShines in the fatal beauty of decay!When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,Nakedly visible without a cloud,And faintly from the faint eternal blue(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the starWhich evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,And in the cottage windows one by one,With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon,When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood!But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, GodAlone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood,Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme,To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moonShines out in sweet completion circular.For when the sunset hath withdrawn its goldAnd glimmering, like the surceaseOf rich, low melody, erst inaudible streamsFind voices in their still unwearied flow;And winds that have been much above the moorsAnd mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
SSWEET Muse and well-beloved, with my declineDeclining, like a rose crushed unawares,Having too early knowledge of decay,Too subtle pleasure to behold the treeShed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!
S
O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wingOf an archangel, dipped in holy dew,To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliestOctober, o’er the many-coloured woods!October! vastlier disconsolateThan Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,And the vermilion fruitage of the brierIs soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seenTenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—The frail and indescribable lovelinessOf a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,Being there only powerful,—while the earthWears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Then the reflective melancholy soul,—Aimlessly wandering with slow falling footThe heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuageThe cunning humour of his malady,—Loses his painful bitterness, and feelsHis own specific sorrows one by oneTaken up in the huge dolour of all things.
O the sweet melancholy of the timeWhen gently, ere the heart appeals, the yearShines in the fatal beauty of decay!When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,Nakedly visible without a cloud,And faintly from the faint eternal blue(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the starWhich evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,And in the cottage windows one by one,With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon,When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood!But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, GodAlone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood,Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme,To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moonShines out in sweet completion circular.For when the sunset hath withdrawn its goldAnd glimmering, like the surceaseOf rich, low melody, erst inaudible streamsFind voices in their still unwearied flow;And winds that have been much above the moorsAnd mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.