5
On the brown, flowerless meadow lies
The wraith of summer; oat flowers bright
Nod heavy on her death-blind eyes,
Smiling with melancholy light.
And Autumn, with his eyelids red
Drooped to her beauty, sits to-day,
His sad heart sweetly comforted
By storms upon their starless way.
Seasons continuous, mingling, thrill
Our souls, as notes that sweetly blend,
Until we cannot, if we will,
Tell where they or begin or end.
And while the blue fly sings so well,
And while the cricket chirps so low;
In the bright grass, I scarce can tell
If there be daisy-flakes, or snow.
But when along the slumberous blue,
And dreamy, quiet atmosphere,
I look to find the April dew,
I know the Autumn time is here.
The lampless hollow of the skies
Is full of mists, or blank, or dun;
Where all day, soft and warm, there lies
A shadow that should be the sun.
The winds gOnoiseless on their way,
Scarcely the lightest twig is stirred;
Not through the wild green boughs of May
Slips the blue lizard so unheard.
Under the woolly mullen, flat
Against the dust, together creep
The shining beetles; and the bat
Is drowsing to his winter sleep.
The iron-weeds' red tops are down,
Wilted from all their summer sheen
The fennel's golden buds are brown,
And loneliest in all the scene:
Hither and thither lightly blows
A white cloud o'er the darkening wood,
Like some unpastured lamb that goes
Climbing and wandering for food.
But plenty gladdens all the world,
For corn is ripe, if flowers be o'er;
Autumn, with yellow beard uncurled
In summer's grave-damps, sigh no more!
Sigh no more, Autumn! sigh no more—
For if the blooming boughs have shed
Their pleasant leaves, the light will pour
So much the brighter on thy head.
And while thy mourning voice is staid
I'll play my pipe, so adding on
Another to the rhymes I made
Ere youth, my pretty mate, was gone.
Winds, stirring through the pinetops high,
Or hovering on the ocean's breast,
Blow softly on the ways that lie
Sloping and brightening toward the West.
Blow softly, for my thoughts would sweep,
Upon your still and beauteous waves,
Back to the woodlands green and deep,
Back to the firesides and the graves—
The firesides of the rosiest glow,
The graves wherein my kindred rest;
Winds of the Northland, softly blow,
And bear me to the lovely West.
There linger sweetest voices yet,
That ever soothed from grief its pain;
There glow the hills with suns long set,
And there my heart grows young again.
The hope which in the crimson boughs
Shut up her wings dim years away,
Sits with her wan and crownless brows
Leaned on the sodded grave to-day.
For when the last sweet vision died
She nursed for me, there fell a night
Cloudy and black enough to hide
Her smile's almost eternal light.
When the unkenneled whining winds,
Went last year tracking through the snow,
My heart was comforted with friends
Gone on the last long journey now—
Who in the middle heavens can view
The noontide sun without a sigh—
A yearning for the faded dew
Where morning's broken splendors lie.
And from the glory up above,
My eyes come down to earth and mark
The pain, the sorrow for lost love—
The awful transit to the dark.
Weak and unworthy, still I live,
Harvests and plenteous boughs to see;
My God! how good thou art to give
Such blessings as I have to me,
Oh! add to these all needful grace—
Divide me from that proud disdain,
Climbing against the sunless base
Of an eternity of pain.
The wraith of summer; oat flowers bright
Nod heavy on her death-blind eyes,
Smiling with melancholy light.
And Autumn, with his eyelids red
Drooped to her beauty, sits to-day,
His sad heart sweetly comforted
By storms upon their starless way.
Seasons continuous, mingling, thrill
Our souls, as notes that sweetly blend,
Until we cannot, if we will,
Tell where they or begin or end.
And while the blue fly sings so well,
And while the cricket chirps so low;
In the bright grass, I scarce can tell
If there be daisy-flakes, or snow.
But when along the slumberous blue,
And dreamy, quiet atmosphere,
I look to find the April dew,
I know the Autumn time is here.
The lampless hollow of the skies
Is full of mists, or blank, or dun;
Where all day, soft and warm, there lies
A shadow that should be the sun.
The winds gOnoiseless on their way,
Scarcely the lightest twig is stirred;
Not through the wild green boughs of May
Slips the blue lizard so unheard.
Under the woolly mullen, flat
Against the dust, together creep
The shining beetles; and the bat
Is drowsing to his winter sleep.
The iron-weeds' red tops are down,
Wilted from all their summer sheen
The fennel's golden buds are brown,
And loneliest in all the scene:
Hither and thither lightly blows
A white cloud o'er the darkening wood,
Like some unpastured lamb that goes
Climbing and wandering for food.
But plenty gladdens all the world,
For corn is ripe, if flowers be o'er;
Autumn, with yellow beard uncurled
In summer's grave-damps, sigh no more!
Sigh no more, Autumn! sigh no more—
For if the blooming boughs have shed
Their pleasant leaves, the light will pour
So much the brighter on thy head.
And while thy mourning voice is staid
I'll play my pipe, so adding on
Another to the rhymes I made
Ere youth, my pretty mate, was gone.
Winds, stirring through the pinetops high,
Or hovering on the ocean's breast,
Blow softly on the ways that lie
Sloping and brightening toward the West.
Blow softly, for my thoughts would sweep,
Upon your still and beauteous waves,
Back to the woodlands green and deep,
Back to the firesides and the graves—
The firesides of the rosiest glow,
The graves wherein my kindred rest;
Winds of the Northland, softly blow,
And bear me to the lovely West.
There linger sweetest voices yet,
That ever soothed from grief its pain;
There glow the hills with suns long set,
And there my heart grows young again.
The hope which in the crimson boughs
Shut up her wings dim years away,
Sits with her wan and crownless brows
Leaned on the sodded grave to-day.
For when the last sweet vision died
She nursed for me, there fell a night
Cloudy and black enough to hide
Her smile's almost eternal light.
When the unkenneled whining winds,
Went last year tracking through the snow,
My heart was comforted with friends
Gone on the last long journey now—
Who in the middle heavens can view
The noontide sun without a sigh—
A yearning for the faded dew
Where morning's broken splendors lie.
And from the glory up above,
My eyes come down to earth and mark
The pain, the sorrow for lost love—
The awful transit to the dark.
Weak and unworthy, still I live,
Harvests and plenteous boughs to see;
My God! how good thou art to give
Such blessings as I have to me,
Oh! add to these all needful grace—
Divide me from that proud disdain,
Climbing against the sunless base
Of an eternity of pain.
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