 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
3
A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN.
I love to wander through the woodlands hoary,
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.
How through each loved, familiar path she lingers,
Serenely smiling through the golden mist,
Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers,
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;
Serenely smiling through the golden mist,
Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers,
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;
Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls;
With hoary plumes the clematis entwining,
Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls;
With hoary plumes the clematis entwining,
Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.
4
Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled,
Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled,
Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.
The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers,
In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.
In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.
Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow,
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.
Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding,
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell;
Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell;
Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.
5
The little birds upon the hill-side lonely
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray,
Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray,
Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.
The scentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dreaming,
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight;
And through the trancèd woods soft airs are streaming,
Still as the dew-fall of the summer night.
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight;
And through the trancèd woods soft airs are streaming,
Still as the dew-fall of the summer night.
So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling
Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell,
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing,
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell.
Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell,
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing,
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell.
1848.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |