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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
335
OCTOBER.
“What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?
Have they that ‘green and yellow melancholy’
That the sweet poet spake of?”
Brainerd.
Have they that ‘green and yellow melancholy’
That the sweet poet spake of?”
Brainerd.
The tenth one of a royal line
Breathes on the wind his mandate loud,
And fitful gleams of sunlight shine
Around his throne of cloud:
The Genii of the forest dim
A many-colored robe for him
Of fallen leaves have wrought;
And softened is his visage grim
By melancholy thought.
Breathes on the wind his mandate loud,
And fitful gleams of sunlight shine
Around his throne of cloud:
The Genii of the forest dim
A many-colored robe for him
Of fallen leaves have wrought;
And softened is his visage grim
By melancholy thought.
No joyous birds his coming hail,
For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone,
And over Nature's face a veil
Of dull, gray mist is drawn:
The crow, with heavy pinion-strokes
Beats the chill air in flight, and croaks
A dreary song of dole:
Beneath my feet the puff-ball smokes
As through the fields I stroll.
For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone,
And over Nature's face a veil
Of dull, gray mist is drawn:
The crow, with heavy pinion-strokes
Beats the chill air in flight, and croaks
A dreary song of dole:
Beneath my feet the puff-ball smokes
As through the fields I stroll.
An awning broad of many dyes
Above me bends, as on I stray,
More splendid than Italian skies
Bright with the death of day;
As in the sun-bow's radiant braid
Shade melts like magic into shade,
And purple, green, and gold,
With carmine blent, have gorgeous made
October's flag unrolled.
Above me bends, as on I stray,
More splendid than Italian skies
Bright with the death of day;
As in the sun-bow's radiant braid
Shade melts like magic into shade,
And purple, green, and gold,
With carmine blent, have gorgeous made
October's flag unrolled.
336
The partridge, closely ambushed, hears
The crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!
And to a thicker covert steers
On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee's tiny horn,
The cricket's bugle shrill—
Sadly is Autumn's mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.
The crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!
And to a thicker covert steers
On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee's tiny horn,
The cricket's bugle shrill—
Sadly is Autumn's mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.
Black walnuts, in low, meadow ground
Are dropping now their dark, green balls,
And on the ridge, with rattling sound,
The deep brown chestnut falls.
When comes a day of sunshine mild,
From childhood, nutting in the wild,
Outbursts a shout of glee;
And high the pointed shells are piled
Under the hickory tree.
Are dropping now their dark, green balls,
And on the ridge, with rattling sound,
The deep brown chestnut falls.
When comes a day of sunshine mild,
From childhood, nutting in the wild,
Outbursts a shout of glee;
And high the pointed shells are piled
Under the hickory tree.
Bright flowers yet linger:—from the morn
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;
Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,
That brings to frailer blossoms blight,
The germs of fruit they bear,
That, living on through Winter white,
Ripens in Summer air.
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;
Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,
That brings to frailer blossoms blight,
The germs of fruit they bear,
That, living on through Winter white,
Ripens in Summer air.
The varied aster tribes unclose
Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower,
And azure cup the gentian shows,
A modest little flower:
Their garden sisters pale have turned,
Though late the dahlia I discerned
Right royally arrayed:
And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned
Like cheek of bashful maid.
Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower,
And azure cup the gentian shows,
A modest little flower:
Their garden sisters pale have turned,
Though late the dahlia I discerned
Right royally arrayed:
And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned
Like cheek of bashful maid.
337
In piles around the cider-mill
The parti-colored apples shine,
And busy hands the hopper fill
While foams the pumice fine—
The cheese, with yellow straw between
Full, juicy layers, may be seen,
And rills of amber hue
Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean,
While turns the groaning screw.
The parti-colored apples shine,
And busy hands the hopper fill
While foams the pumice fine—
The cheese, with yellow straw between
Full, juicy layers, may be seen,
And rills of amber hue
Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean,
While turns the groaning screw.
From wheat-fields, washed by recent rains,
In flocks the whistling plover rise
When night draws near, and leaden stains
Obscure the western skies:
The geese, so orderly of late,
Fly over fence and farm-yard gate,
As if the welkin black
The habits of a wilder state
To memory brought back.
In flocks the whistling plover rise
When night draws near, and leaden stains
Obscure the western skies:
The geese, so orderly of late,
Fly over fence and farm-yard gate,
As if the welkin black
The habits of a wilder state
To memory brought back.
Yon streamlet to the woods around,
Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,
Oh! how unlike the joyous sound
Wherewith it welcomed June!
Wasting away with grief, it seems,
For flowers that flaunted in the beams
Of many a sun-bright day—
Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreams
When life hath reached its May.
Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,
Oh! how unlike the joyous sound
Wherewith it welcomed June!
Wasting away with grief, it seems,
For flowers that flaunted in the beams
Of many a sun-bright day—
Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreams
When life hath reached its May.
Though wild, mischievous sprites of air,
In cruel mockery of a crown,
Drop on October's brow of care
Dead wreaths and foliage brown,
Abroad the sun will look again,
Rejoicing in his blue domain,
And prodigal of gold,
Ere dark November's sullen reign
Gild stream and forest old.
In cruel mockery of a crown,
Drop on October's brow of care
Dead wreaths and foliage brown,
Abroad the sun will look again,
Rejoicing in his blue domain,
And prodigal of gold,
Ere dark November's sullen reign
Gild stream and forest old.
338
Called by the west wind from her grave,
Once more will summer re-appear,
And gladden with a merry stave
The wan, departing year;
Her swiftest messenger will stay
The wild bird winging south its way
And night, no longer sad,
Will emulate the blaze of day,
In cloudless moonshine clad.
Once more will summer re-appear,
And gladden with a merry stave
The wan, departing year;
Her swiftest messenger will stay
The wild bird winging south its way
And night, no longer sad,
Will emulate the blaze of day,
In cloudless moonshine clad.
The scene will smoky vestments wear,
As if glad Earth—one altar made—
By clouding the delicious air
With fragrant fumes, displayed
A sense of gratitude for warm,
Enchanting weather after storm,
And raindrops falling fast,
On dead September's mouldering form,
From skies with gloom o'ercast.
As if glad Earth—one altar made—
By clouding the delicious air
With fragrant fumes, displayed
A sense of gratitude for warm,
Enchanting weather after storm,
And raindrops falling fast,
On dead September's mouldering form,
From skies with gloom o'ercast.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |