 | Western windows and other poems |  |
115
SUNDOWN.
While stealthy breezes kiss to frosty gold
The swells of foliage down the vale serene,
And all the sunset fills
The dreamland of the hills,
Now all the enchantment of October old
Feels a cold veil fall o'er its passing scene.
The swells of foliage down the vale serene,
And all the sunset fills
The dreamland of the hills,
Now all the enchantment of October old
Feels a cold veil fall o'er its passing scene.
Low sounds of Autumn creep along the plains,
Through the wide stillness of the woodlands brown,
Where the still waters glean
The melancholy scene;
The cattle, lingering slow through river lanes,
Brush yellowing vines that swing through elm-trees down.
Through the wide stillness of the woodlands brown,
Where the still waters glean
The melancholy scene;
The cattle, lingering slow through river lanes,
Brush yellowing vines that swing through elm-trees down.
The forests, climbing up the northern air,
Wear far an azure slumber through the light,
Showing, in pictures strange,
The stealthy wand of change;
The corn shows languid breezes, here and there—
Faint-heard o'er all the bottoms wide and bright.
Wear far an azure slumber through the light,
Showing, in pictures strange,
The stealthy wand of change;
The corn shows languid breezes, here and there—
Faint-heard o'er all the bottoms wide and bright.
116
On many a silent circle slowly blown,
The hawk, in sun-flush'd calm suspended high,
With careless trust of might
Slides wing-wide through the light—
Now golden through the restless dazzle shown,
Now drooping down, now swinging up the sky.
The hawk, in sun-flush'd calm suspended high,
With careless trust of might
Slides wing-wide through the light—
Now golden through the restless dazzle shown,
Now drooping down, now swinging up the sky.
Wind-worn along their sunburnt gables old,
The barns are full of all the Indian sun,
In golden quiet wrought
Like webs of dreamy thought,
And in their Winter clasp serenely fold
The green year's earnest promise harvest-won.
The barns are full of all the Indian sun,
In golden quiet wrought
Like webs of dreamy thought,
And in their Winter clasp serenely fold
The green year's earnest promise harvest-won.
With evening bells that gather, low or loud,
A village, through the distance, poplar-bound,
O'er meadows silent grown,
And lanes with crisp leaves strown,
Lifts up one spire, aflame, against a cloud
That slumbers eastward, slow and silver-crowned.
A village, through the distance, poplar-bound,
O'er meadows silent grown,
And lanes with crisp leaves strown,
Lifts up one spire, aflame, against a cloud
That slumbers eastward, slow and silver-crowned.
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