Classic Poem

A MONG the leaves of Autumn, dear,
That strew the wistful wold,
I walk again; once more I hear
The footsteps of the passing year
Amid the scenes of old.
Once more the grass is growing sere,
Once more the listless leaves appear
Like gold.
Like beaten gold.

The sacred semblance lives once more;
But oh, the soul hath fled.
Dear Nature's hand can not restore
The dream that once hath sped.
A sorrowing silence wraps me round
And slow and soft I tread,
For sure within the aching ground
Some wailing voice which hath no sound,
Doth haunt the stream's dry bed.
And all the clustering leaves, that bound
The brows of Summer, see their crowned
And regal mistress, dead.

Beneath this changed and fading hill,
From which her dream hath fled:
Beside the stream that once did thrill
This slope with song, now hushed and still,
Sweet Summer lieth dead.
These some-time children of her care
Have said farewell to mirth,
And, circling downward through the air
Because that love doth call, they share
Her fate upon the earth.
Thus Love doth triumph in despair:
Dear Beauty is in death as fair
As she did seem at birth.

The sculptured vase that once did hold
The god's immortal wine
Hath this, that once it did enfold
A gift that was divine.
So Beauty, ever as of old,
Though change may wreck the precious mold,
Her deathless wreath will twine.
Come Summer warmth or Winter's cold,
She turns the common clay to gold
And shapes her first design.

The autumn leaves, like golden greaves,
Lie on my path to-day,
And in the sun the spider weaves
Her thread of silken gray.
Ah, angel dear, wert thou but here
To walk this path with me,
Naught would I care, though trees were bare
And Winter swept the lea!
Come foul, come fair, all, I would dare
To walk the world with thee!

If I do mourn that Joy hath fled,
Dear Memory still doth stay:
If I shall sink among the dead —
Shall I then sleep alway?
Though I should never leave that bed,
Yet one, more worthy, in my stead
May find the light of day.

What then? 'Tis well. These leaves I kiss,
Poor brothers mine. I too like this
Shall fade, like these decay.
Sweet Autumn leaves! — sweet Autumn leaves!
What soul that lives and never grieves
That Summer's bloom doth fade?
The year grows pale. Within the vale
Her purple robes are laid;
Beside the stream where she did dream
Sweet Summer's grave is made.

For thee, dear love, I scorn the path
To which all footsteps press;
Because of thee, my spirit hath
Still loved the wilderness.
Remembering thee, I scorn to bring
My tribute to the shrine
Where all the world doth bend, or sing
For other ears than thine.
For though thy lips no more can praise
Aught that my heart may give,
Yet here, as in the olden days,
Thy soul doth seem to live.

For that thy sacred dust doth sleep
Within the fragrant earth,
Because the woodland seems to keep
The memory of thy worth,
There is no fading leaf that falls
That is not dear to me:
There is no woodland voice that calls
That doth not seem to be
The voice of some deep love that fills
These locked and rocky-breasted hills,
Wherein the guarding gods still keep
The dim dead past.
Still it doth say, " Rest! rest at last! "
And when I hear, my own heart thrills,
Remembering life's half-blissful ills,
And I am fain to weep.

The mingling of a strange regret
Comes with that trembling tone
Which leads my spirit farther yet
Within the land unknown —
The dark dead past, from which the cast
Of my own life hath grown;
And that which now is, then, shall be,
No more but this — The dark dead past .
Alas! what gloom steals over me? —
My heart cries out aloud for thee:
Come back but once — one moment's space!
Let me not be forgot
In that uncareful land where thou dost dwell —
I seek no heaven where thou art not.
If I shall see no more thy face
Then I bid hope farewell.
If love's fond dream be flown
There is no gaping gulf of hell
Holds fear for me.
If love be mortal, let Death bar the door —
I care not what awaits on that dark shore,
I am myself — alone.