 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 4. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
AN AUTUMN MEDITATION |
|
| 1. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 4. |
|
| 1. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
|
| 2. |
|
 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
AN AUTUMN MEDITATION
As the long day of cloud and storm and sun
Declines into the dark and silent night,
So past the old man's life from human gaze;
But not till sunset, full of lovely light
And color that the day might not reveal,
Bathed in soft gloom the landscape.
Declines into the dark and silent night,
So past the old man's life from human gaze;
65
And color that the day might not reveal,
Bathed in soft gloom the landscape.
Thus, kind Heaven,
Let me, too, die when Autumn holds the year,—
Serene, with tender hues and bracing airs,—
And near me those I love; with no black thoughts,
Nor dread of what may come! Yea, when I die
Let me not miss from nature the cool rush
Of northern winds; let Autumn sunset skies
Be golden; let the cold, clear blue of night
Whiten with stars as now! then shall I fade
From life to life—pass on the year's full tide
Into the swell and vast of the outer sea
Beyond this narrow world.
Let me, too, die when Autumn holds the year,—
Serene, with tender hues and bracing airs,—
And near me those I love; with no black thoughts,
Nor dread of what may come! Yea, when I die
Let me not miss from nature the cool rush
Of northern winds; let Autumn sunset skies
Be golden; let the cold, clear blue of night
Whiten with stars as now! then shall I fade
From life to life—pass on the year's full tide
Into the swell and vast of the outer sea
Beyond this narrow world.
For Autumn days
To me not melancholy are, but full
Of joy and hope, mysterious and high;
And with strange promise rife. Then it meseems
Not failing is the year, but gathering fire
Even as the cold increases.
To me not melancholy are, but full
Of joy and hope, mysterious and high;
And with strange promise rife. Then it meseems
Not failing is the year, but gathering fire
Even as the cold increases.
Grows a weed
More richly here beside our mellow seas
That is the Autumn's harbinger and pride.
When fades the cardinal-flower, whose heart-red bloom
Glows like a living coal upon the green
Of the midsummer meadows, then how bright,
How deepening bright, like mounting flame doth burn
The goldenrod upon a thousand hills!
This is the Autumn's flower, and to my soul
A token fresh of beauty and of life,
And life's supreme delight.
More richly here beside our mellow seas
That is the Autumn's harbinger and pride.
When fades the cardinal-flower, whose heart-red bloom
Glows like a living coal upon the green
Of the midsummer meadows, then how bright,
How deepening bright, like mounting flame doth burn
The goldenrod upon a thousand hills!
This is the Autumn's flower, and to my soul
A token fresh of beauty and of life,
And life's supreme delight.
66
When I am gone,
Something of me I would might subtly pass
Within these flowers twain of all the year;
So might my spirit send a sudden stir
Into the hearts of those who love these hills,
These woods, these waves, and meadows by the sea.
Something of me I would might subtly pass
Within these flowers twain of all the year;
So might my spirit send a sudden stir
Into the hearts of those who love these hills,
These woods, these waves, and meadows by the sea.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |