Autumn

Autumn (in Short Poetry Collection 160 )With what a glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingersOf sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoyLife’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out;And when the silver habit of the cloudsComes down upon the autumn sun, and withA sober gladness the old year takes upHis bright inheritance of golden fruits,A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.There is a beautiful spirit breathing nowIts mellow richness on the clustered trees,And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing, and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves; the purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.O what a glory doth this world put onFor him who, with a fervent heart, goes forthUnder the bright and glorious sky, and looksOn duties well performed, and days well spent!For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leavesShall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that DeathHas lifted up for all, that he shall goTo his long resting-place without a tear.