So harsh the tolling of the wind For Autumn's new solemnities -- As if a gypsy wanton sinned Who won the eternal homage of the trees! The river aisle, the willow arch Have ever been her secret church, Where now the white cortege will march To meet the chancel of a hermit birch. The dignity of death is hers -- And yet, when all the prayers are said, A blithesome spirit lightly stirs The folded, frost-pearled cerements of the dead. A paean rises in the wood ... Tall oak trees Autumn loved the best Release a flock of snow-doves ... Could A leaf have fallen, dancing, on her breast? What matter ice and whirling snow, And death, and passion's winter grief, When shroud may wear the afterglow Of wild confetti in a faded leaf! |