 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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AUTUMNAL MUSINGS.
An opening in the cloud!
And sunlight, gushing tremulously through,
Drinks up the white, thin shroud
That spread where lately shone the summer dew.
And sunlight, gushing tremulously through,
Drinks up the white, thin shroud
That spread where lately shone the summer dew.
The sky is dark again;
And, roaming sadly in the wood-land path,
I deem that grove and plain
Lie in the shadow of celestial wrath.
And, roaming sadly in the wood-land path,
I deem that grove and plain
Lie in the shadow of celestial wrath.
The pleasant leaves are dead,
And make sad music when the north-wind stirs
The branches overhead,
And gathers them to forest-sepulchres.
And make sad music when the north-wind stirs
The branches overhead,
And gathers them to forest-sepulchres.
The crow, in accents harsh,
Gives voice to Sorrow in his olden haunt;
But nigh the reedy marsh
I hear no more the black-bird's merry chaunt.
Gives voice to Sorrow in his olden haunt;
But nigh the reedy marsh
I hear no more the black-bird's merry chaunt.
The brook no longer winds
In silver beauty by the homes of men,
And, full of laughter, finds
A green concealment in the shrubby glen.
In silver beauty by the homes of men,
And, full of laughter, finds
A green concealment in the shrubby glen.
But melancholy tones
From the worn, pebbly channel faintly rise,
Like low, despairing moans
That leave maternal lips when childhood dies:
From the worn, pebbly channel faintly rise,
Like low, despairing moans
That leave maternal lips when childhood dies:
And well the brook may mourn;
For the bright leaves that shaded from the sun
Its tripping wave, are torn
From the dark, wind-toss'd branches, one by one:—
For the bright leaves that shaded from the sun
Its tripping wave, are torn
From the dark, wind-toss'd branches, one by one:—
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And on yon herbs that made
Its margin beautiful, the hoary frost
A blighting finger laid,
And their green witchery of hue is lost.
Its margin beautiful, the hoary frost
A blighting finger laid,
And their green witchery of hue is lost.
The flowers no longer raise
Their cups of fragrance, courted by the bee;
But the blithe squirrel pays
Enriching visits to the walnut-tree.
Their cups of fragrance, courted by the bee;
But the blithe squirrel pays
Enriching visits to the walnut-tree.
Dry twigs beneath my feet
The secret of my neighborhood betray,
And from her still retreat
The partridge flies on whirring wing away.
The secret of my neighborhood betray,
And from her still retreat
The partridge flies on whirring wing away.
What teachers are the oaks,
With their torn mantles waving in the blast;
While the black raven croaks
A dirge for beauty in the dust at last!
With their torn mantles waving in the blast;
While the black raven croaks
A dirge for beauty in the dust at last!
How sweetly do the skies,
And the wide earth that withers far below,
Though tongueless, sermonize
On that great change we all must undergo!
And the wide earth that withers far below,
Though tongueless, sermonize
On that great change we all must undergo!
The distant hill up-towers,
With its gray top in smoky verdure clad;
And, robbed of sunny flowers,
The meadows round look desolate and sad.
With its gray top in smoky verdure clad;
And, robbed of sunny flowers,
The meadows round look desolate and sad.
What eastern monarch owns
A robe of richer color than these leaves
That speak in rustling tones,
And fall in rainbow flakes when autumn grieves?
A robe of richer color than these leaves
That speak in rustling tones,
And fall in rainbow flakes when autumn grieves?
Though blest the distant coast,
Where grow the flowering lemon and sweet lime,
No foreign land can boast
The passing beauty of our autumn-time.
Where grow the flowering lemon and sweet lime,
No foreign land can boast
The passing beauty of our autumn-time.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |