The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | III. SONG OF AUTUMN
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
113
III. SONG OF AUTUMN
When the leaves are whirling through the forest olden,
Grey and green and brown and crimson dying leaves,
Sodden leaves that only yesterday were golden,
While the autumn wind-swept foliage sways and heaves,
There are ghosts of lovers through the forest questing,
Seeking vainly as their weary footsteps stray,
Haunts they loved when all around the birds were nesting
And the air was sweet with fragrance of the may.
Grey and green and brown and crimson dying leaves,
Sodden leaves that only yesterday were golden,
While the autumn wind-swept foliage sways and heaves,
There are ghosts of lovers through the forest questing,
Seeking vainly as their weary footsteps stray,
Haunts they loved when all around the birds were nesting
And the air was sweet with fragrance of the may.
Weary ghosts they are of former happy lovers.
Now they find no mossy carpet for their feet
Spread within the oaken glades and hazel covers:
Pale and tearful, in the forest-depths they meet.
“Here was once a yellow primrose-bank,” they mutter.
“Here we built a golden cowslip-throne,” they say.
“From yon thicket, with a chirrup and a flutter,
Dashed the brown thrush thro' the white and crimson may.”
Now they find no mossy carpet for their feet
Spread within the oaken glades and hazel covers:
Pale and tearful, in the forest-depths they meet.
“Here was once a yellow primrose-bank,” they mutter.
“Here we built a golden cowslip-throne,” they say.
“From yon thicket, with a chirrup and a flutter,
Dashed the brown thrush thro' the white and crimson may.”
114
Is there any peace of mind for those who ponder
In the autumn on the summer's vanished bloom,
Save in hope that every blossom-spirit, yonder
Far in heaven, exults triumphant o'er the tomb?
Is there hope for human spirits pale and breathless
With the struggle and the strife of every day?
Just the hope that love's true flowers in heaven are deathless,
Though death withers all the sweetness of the may.
In the autumn on the summer's vanished bloom,
Save in hope that every blossom-spirit, yonder
Far in heaven, exults triumphant o'er the tomb?
Is there hope for human spirits pale and breathless
With the struggle and the strife of every day?
Just the hope that love's true flowers in heaven are deathless,
Though death withers all the sweetness of the may.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |