Classic Poem

ON AN Autumn M ORNING

O H , how the blinking station lamps drowsily
Stretch in a long line yonder behind the trees!
Their light, through boughs that drip with raindrops,
Sleepily gapes on the mud beneath them.

Hard by, the engine peevishly, piercingly,
Stridently hisses: o'er us the leaden sky
Low lowers, and the autumn morning
Looms like a limitless dream-world round us.

Whither and wherefore move with such feverish
Haste to the gloomy carriages folk that seem
So silent and absorbed? What unknown
Sorrows or hopes unattained torment them?

Thou, too, with thoughtful mien to the guard givest
Thy ticket, Lydia, which he abruptly clips;
As unto swift-winged Time thou givest
Youth and its fondly remembered pleasures.

Moving along the line of black coaches go
Black-hooded watchmen, shadow-like, carrying
In one hand dim lanterns, in the other
Gripping the hammers of iron wherewith

They test the iron brakes, that return a long,
Dismal metallic clang: from the depth of my
Sad heart a weary echo answers
Mournfully, seeming to rack the heart-strings.

And each successive roughly slammed carriage-door
Strikes like an insult: mockery seems the last
Quick call that rings out down the platform:
Fiercely the rain on the windows rattles.

And now within the monster his iron soul
Stirs itself: panting, shaking, he openeth
His flaming eyes: huge through the darkness
Breathes he the steam, which all heav'n defieth.

On moves th' unholy monster: in cruel flight
Beating his wings he beareth my love away.
Alas, the pale face 'neath the black veil
Smiling farewell in the darkness fadeth.

O exquisite pale face, like a rose in bloom,
O starlike eyes that soothe me with peace, O white,
Pure forehead, shaded by abundant
Tresses, so sweetly towards me bending!

Once at thy smile life thrilled thro' the tepid air,
Thrilled through me summer's magic: I have beheld
The merry sun of June with radiant
Kisses caressing thy tender cheek and

Glinting upon the coils of thy chestnut hair:
Yet round thy gentle form like an aureole
My dreams, more lovely than the sunlight,
Hovered and girt thee about with glory.

Now through the rain and darkness I turn my face
Homeward, and fain would mingle myself with them:
I reel, as drunkards reel, and touch my
Limbs lest I deem myself, too, a phantom.

Oh, how the leaves are falling, are falling, chill,
Silent, relentless, weighing my spirit down!
Methinks that in the world November
Reigneth alone for all men for ever.

Better for whom all feeling of life is dead,
Better these gloomy shades, this obscurity;
I yearn, I yearn to sink unconscious
Lost in a languid eternal slumber.