AH! who hath not joy of chill Autumn's slow coming? Who finds not delight in her wistful wan face? When skies are all gray and the seas are all foaming, Ah! then with sweet sorrow the heart fills apace. Then the long day seems twilit at noon as at morning; In the air full of tears, black and bare hang the boughs; Then under the thatch the bright faggots are burning, And fog's on the roof of the old manor-house. With the pallor of death now the fallow-land blanches; Nigh the stable that shelters the cattle from harm, The reek rises upward between the slim branches In spirals that curl from the litter still warm. We walk full of dreams like a man that is sleeping; We smell the sweet odours of harvests gone by, And memory shines in the midst of our weeping Like a star that is seen on the far-away sky. We hearken no more to the cry of the swallow; The sap shrinks away from the frost that doth bind; All is mute. Love alone hath no time that is fallow, But blossoms and sings in the teeth of the wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND by ROBERT BRIDGES (1858-1941) CHIQUITA by FRANCIS BRET HARTE A ST. HELENA LULLABY by RUDYARD KIPLING THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ASSAULT by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: MAN'S GUARD AGAINST DEATH by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |