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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
An Autumn Holiday.
I don't want to think about ‘the meaning,’
I don't want to think fine thoughts at all!
On the great heather cushions leaning,
I'm watching the sunset, that is all!
I don't want to think fine thoughts at all!
On the great heather cushions leaning,
I'm watching the sunset, that is all!
Why should I puzzle and tease with questions,
When Nature shows me her picture-book?
I will leave her to make her own suggestions,
And just do nothing but sit and look.
When Nature shows me her picture-book?
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And just do nothing but sit and look.
I have finished the work of a busy season,
And I want to quiet a busy brain,
Now is the time for rest (in reason),
Before I begin a new campaign.
And I want to quiet a busy brain,
Now is the time for rest (in reason),
Before I begin a new campaign.
And oh it is rest, and most delicious,
To know that I need not speak a word;
By only the midges (most officious!)
Could anything here be overheard.
To know that I need not speak a word;
By only the midges (most officious!)
Could anything here be overheard.
Isn't it nice! The bracken browning
Is almost gold in the autumn glow,
And the silver birch, with the same fair crowning,
Gleams like a streak of glistening snow.
Is almost gold in the autumn glow,
And the silver birch, with the same fair crowning,
Gleams like a streak of glistening snow.
The sweet south air is so soft and quiet,
Stealing along through the fern to me,
After the most uncivil riot
Of his cousin from over the western sea.
Stealing along through the fern to me,
After the most uncivil riot
Of his cousin from over the western sea.
The broad blaze hides all the fresh-foldings,
Under the flood of sunset light,
And touches anew all the quarry mouldings
Of the eastern hills with its gilding bright.
Under the flood of sunset light,
And touches anew all the quarry mouldings
Of the eastern hills with its gilding bright.
The clouds are hanging a cool grey curtain,
Up in the north till the sun gets low;
Only biding their time, and certain
Then to flaunt in a crimson show.
Up in the north till the sun gets low;
Only biding their time, and certain
Then to flaunt in a crimson show.
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Slowly, slowly the sun is sinking,
Silence and glory are everywhere!
No more writing, and no more thinking!
Only rest in the golden air!
Silence and glory are everywhere!
No more writing, and no more thinking!
Only rest in the golden air!
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |