 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
A PAUSE OF PEACE.
LATE-COMING Summer lingers late;
Time tarries in October's gate:
Though Winter near by lessening light
Is notified and early night.
Time tarries in October's gate:
Though Winter near by lessening light
Is notified and early night.
I fare beneath the fading trees:
So bland the sun, so soft the breeze,
But for the russet carpet spread,
One scarce would deem the Summer dead.
So bland the sun, so soft the breeze,
But for the russet carpet spread,
One scarce would deem the Summer dead.
The fallen leaves beneath my feet
Their Autumn-threnody repeat,
The knell of youth and glee and grace,
Death's descant on Time's thorough-bass.
Their Autumn-threnody repeat,
The knell of youth and glee and grace,
Death's descant on Time's thorough-bass.
The air is heavy with their scent
Of dull indifferent lament,
The exhalation of an earth
That weary is to death of birth.
Of dull indifferent lament,
The exhalation of an earth
That weary is to death of birth.
53
Its bitter savour fills the soul
With memories of joy and dole,
Of grief and gladness dead and done,
Of April loves and August sun.
With memories of joy and dole,
Of grief and gladness dead and done,
Of April loves and August sun.
Under the opalescent haze
That hovers o'er the windless ways,
So still it is, I hear the sound
Of leaves that flutter to the ground.
That hovers o'er the windless ways,
So still it is, I hear the sound
Of leaves that flutter to the ground.
I hearken to your ritornel,
Dead leaves, the season's passing-bell
That tolls, as if (so dry its tone)
Its clapper were Death's hand of bone.
Dead leaves, the season's passing-bell
That tolls, as if (so dry its tone)
Its clapper were Death's hand of bone.
I know not why; but, as I go,
The time's phantasmagoric show
Makes men and things as shadows seem;
Life lapses by me like a dream.
The time's phantasmagoric show
Makes men and things as shadows seem;
Life lapses by me like a dream.
Not one am I the Autumn-tide
That love; I watch it weary-eyed;
Its woods for me in vain display
Their vaunted vesture of decay.
That love; I watch it weary-eyed;
Its woods for me in vain display
Their vaunted vesture of decay.
The rotting of the ripened year,
That decks itself to die in sheer
Corruption's phosphorescency
Of colour, hath scant charm for me.
That decks itself to die in sheer
Corruption's phosphorescency
Of colour, hath scant charm for me.
Its gold and bronze and crimson trees
Sad memories of April's leas,
May's maiden blush of blossom, bring
And all the glamour of dead Spring.
Sad memories of April's leas,
May's maiden blush of blossom, bring
And all the glamour of dead Spring.
54
My soul goes out in sick protest
Against the Autumn's pomp unblest,
That o'er the corpse of pleasance dead
Funereal flaunts in gold and red.
Against the Autumn's pomp unblest,
That o'er the corpse of pleasance dead
Funereal flaunts in gold and red.
Yet, when once more October comes
To still the o'erstrung pulse that hums
In Life's tense arteries, I feel
A nameless solace o'er me steal.
To still the o'erstrung pulse that hums
In Life's tense arteries, I feel
A nameless solace o'er me steal.
Still in its vague narcotic scent
There breathes for me a sad content,
A salving spell, I know not whence,
That mollifies my suffering sense.
There breathes for me a sad content,
A salving spell, I know not whence,
That mollifies my suffering sense.
I know not why, but with its veil
Of mist Life's sad and sordid tale
It soothes and with its dull refrain
Of rustling leaves conjures my pain.
Of mist Life's sad and sordid tale
It soothes and with its dull refrain
Of rustling leaves conjures my pain.
The dagger-edges of despair
It blunts and dulls the blade of care,
Truce calling, for an hour or so,
With Life's immedicable woe.
It blunts and dulls the blade of care,
Truce calling, for an hour or so,
With Life's immedicable woe.
It fables, with its flagging breath,
Of peace,—the peace, indeed, of Death!
But where, in this our world of strife,
Were peace to seek and find of Life?
Of peace,—the peace, indeed, of Death!
But where, in this our world of strife,
Were peace to seek and find of Life?
So welcome, dim and dreamy time,
Year's pause of peace before the rime,
When Life contrite to Winter's signs
Of coming death itself resigns.
Year's pause of peace before the rime,
When Life contrite to Winter's signs
Of coming death itself resigns.
| Flower o' the thorn | |