 | Ballads of the North and Other Poems |  |
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AUTUMN.
Where is the promise of thy golden days,O Summer, of thy softly-fleeting hours?
Is this the end of thy delightful ways?
The year is waning:—what is left for ours?
Through leafless branches chilly blows the air;
Yet let us turn, our garnered wealth to share,
And comfort us with warmth of corn and wine,
Strengthening our hearts to meet the year's decline.
But where are thy heaped treasures manifold,
Thy purple fruitage, and thy sheaves of gold?
The showers of spring, the sultry summer's sun
Have been before thee, and their part is done;
What more is wanting to the harvest-home,
Pressed full and full, and plenty left to come?
Spring passed in hopes, and summer passed in dreams,
Thy passing should be glorious too, meseems.
What is this scanty fruit so poor, so cold,
Thy branches scatter, and thy fingers hold?
Is this the measure but of one day's meal?
What for the sinking heart of days that steal
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Of bounty that should overflow my door?
O purple hills, O purple wastes all bare,
Ye mock me, thinking of the days that were!
I stretch my empty hands in vain, in vain;—
These idle hands that had in all the past
Their own part waiting them:—and yet, at last,
Is it too late some working space to gain?
Are not these arms still strong?—Too well I know,
This is the time to reap, and not to sow.
| Ballads of the North and Other Poems | |