 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
206
AUTUMN.
'T is the golden gleam of an autumn day,
With the soft rain raining as if in play;
And a tender touch upon everything,
As if autumn remembered the days of spring.
With the soft rain raining as if in play;
And a tender touch upon everything,
As if autumn remembered the days of spring.
In the listening woods there is not a breath
To shake their gold to the sward beneath;
And a glow as of sunshine upon them lies,
Though the sun is hid in the shadowed skies.
To shake their gold to the sward beneath;
And a glow as of sunshine upon them lies,
Though the sun is hid in the shadowed skies.
The cock's clear crow from the farmyard comes,
The muffled bell from the belfry booms,
And faint and dim, and from far away,
Come the voices of children in happy play.
The muffled bell from the belfry booms,
And faint and dim, and from far away,
Come the voices of children in happy play.
O'er the mountains the white rain draws its veil,
And the black rooks, cawing, across them sail,
While nearer the swooping swallows skim
O'er the steel-gray river's fretted brim.
And the black rooks, cawing, across them sail,
While nearer the swooping swallows skim
O'er the steel-gray river's fretted brim.
No sorrow upon the landscape weighs,
No grief for the vanished summer days,
But a sense of peaceful and calm repose
Like that which age in its autumn knows.
No grief for the vanished summer days,
But a sense of peaceful and calm repose
Like that which age in its autumn knows.
207
The spring-time longings are past and gone,
The passions of summer no longer are known,
The harvest is gathered, and autumn stands
Serenely thoughtful with folded hands.
The passions of summer no longer are known,
The harvest is gathered, and autumn stands
Serenely thoughtful with folded hands.
Over all is thrown a memorial hue,
A glory ideal the real ne'er knew;
For memory sifts from the past its pain,
And suffers its beauty alone to remain.
A glory ideal the real ne'er knew;
For memory sifts from the past its pain,
And suffers its beauty alone to remain.
With half a smile and with half a sigh
It ponders the past that has hurried by;
Sees it, and feels it, and loves it all,
Content it has vanished beyond recall.
It ponders the past that has hurried by;
Sees it, and feels it, and loves it all,
Content it has vanished beyond recall.
O glorious autumn, thus serene,
Thus living and loving all that has been!
Thus calm and contented let me be
When the autumn of age shall come to me.
Thus living and loving all that has been!
Thus calm and contented let me be
When the autumn of age shall come to me.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |