Autumn Lament
We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee,Far flung in distant lands and evil times.We cannot seeThe pallid stars above Ionian slopesOr know the mimesAnd their significance that thou hast known—The dried leaves blownIn drear array among the autumn sheavesAre our distorted hopes.We cannot sing. Ah, now return againSinger and shepherd of the lonely past.Our autumn painIs vanity; no immemorial thingsAre ours at last.Only the bitterness of harvest wind,Impetuously blind,And unimagined lyrics of despairAre ours in deficit of countless springs.LUCIUS BEEBE.
We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee,Far flung in distant lands and evil times.We cannot seeThe pallid stars above Ionian slopesOr know the mimesAnd their significance that thou hast known—The dried leaves blownIn drear array among the autumn sheavesAre our distorted hopes.We cannot sing. Ah, now return againSinger and shepherd of the lonely past.Our autumn painIs vanity; no immemorial thingsAre ours at last.Only the bitterness of harvest wind,Impetuously blind,And unimagined lyrics of despairAre ours in deficit of countless springs.LUCIUS BEEBE.
We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee,Far flung in distant lands and evil times.We cannot seeThe pallid stars above Ionian slopesOr know the mimesAnd their significance that thou hast known—The dried leaves blownIn drear array among the autumn sheavesAre our distorted hopes.
We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee,
Far flung in distant lands and evil times.
We cannot see
The pallid stars above Ionian slopes
Or know the mimes
And their significance that thou hast known—
The dried leaves blown
In drear array among the autumn sheaves
Are our distorted hopes.
We cannot sing. Ah, now return againSinger and shepherd of the lonely past.Our autumn painIs vanity; no immemorial thingsAre ours at last.Only the bitterness of harvest wind,Impetuously blind,And unimagined lyrics of despairAre ours in deficit of countless springs.
We cannot sing. Ah, now return again
Singer and shepherd of the lonely past.
Our autumn pain
Is vanity; no immemorial things
Are ours at last.
Only the bitterness of harvest wind,
Impetuously blind,
And unimagined lyrics of despair
Are ours in deficit of countless springs.
LUCIUS BEEBE.
LUCIUS BEEBE.