 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
157
AUTUMN IN TUSCANY.
DEDICATED TO J. R. L.
These Autumn winds are growing chill,
They wander wailing o'er the hill,
And at the close-shut window cry
That summer opened lovingly;
But we can let them in no more,
And all the eve my heart is sore—
My heart is sore, I know not why.
They seem to say,
The summer day
Has past away,
And life goes with it silently.
They wander wailing o'er the hill,
And at the close-shut window cry
That summer opened lovingly;
But we can let them in no more,
And all the eve my heart is sore—
My heart is sore, I know not why.
They seem to say,
The summer day
Has past away,
And life goes with it silently.
Still o'er the mountain's darkening bar
We watch the new-born evening star,
That throbs and quivers in the sea
Of amber light—and musingly
We let our shaping fancy play
With those soft clouds of pearly gray,
That float along the silvery sky.
Ah woe! ah woe!
We all must go,
The chill winds blow,
And summer 's gone like a passing sigh.
We watch the new-born evening star,
That throbs and quivers in the sea
Of amber light—and musingly
We let our shaping fancy play
With those soft clouds of pearly gray,
That float along the silvery sky.
Ah woe! ah woe!
We all must go,
The chill winds blow,
And summer 's gone like a passing sigh.
158
These Autumn morns when we may stray
Through chestnut woods, where glancing play
The checkered light and shadow thrown
O'er trunk, and grass, and mossy stone,
And lie beneath some spreading tree
And feel our own felicity,
How sweet if they would never fly—
But no! ah no!
'T is never so!
All good things go,
And thought pursues them with a sigh.
Through chestnut woods, where glancing play
The checkered light and shadow thrown
O'er trunk, and grass, and mossy stone,
And lie beneath some spreading tree
And feel our own felicity,
How sweet if they would never fly—
But no! ah no!
'T is never so!
All good things go,
And thought pursues them with a sigh.
All day the woods are redolent
And saddened with the steamy scent
The dewy rotting leaves exhale
That heap the hollows in the vale;
Then through the bonfire's quivering gas
The landscape shakes as it would pass,
And all is sad, we know not why;—
All seems to say
The summer day
Is past away,
Why linger ye to say Good-bye?
And saddened with the steamy scent
The dewy rotting leaves exhale
That heap the hollows in the vale;
Then through the bonfire's quivering gas
The landscape shakes as it would pass,
And all is sad, we know not why;—
All seems to say
The summer day
Is past away,
Why linger ye to say Good-bye?
No more the fierce cicala shrills,
Only the hearthstone-cricket trills,—
The hemp-stalks pile their bleaching bones
In pyramids of skeletons,
Or clacking cradles break them where
The peasant shakes their silvery hair,
And flings them on the grass to dry.
The summer 's flown,
The leaves are strewn,
And we alone
Are lingering here to say Good-bye.
Only the hearthstone-cricket trills,—
The hemp-stalks pile their bleaching bones
In pyramids of skeletons,
Or clacking cradles break them where
The peasant shakes their silvery hair,
159
The summer 's flown,
The leaves are strewn,
And we alone
Are lingering here to say Good-bye.
The cyclamen, alive with fears,
Smooths trembling back its harelike ears;
The frost-touched creepers bleeding fall,
And drip in crimson o'er the wall;
The rusted chestnuts shivering spill
Their bursting spine-burrs on the hill;
The day is short, soon comes the night,
And damp and chill
Along the hill
The dews distil
Under the harvest-moon's great light.
Smooths trembling back its harelike ears;
The frost-touched creepers bleeding fall,
And drip in crimson o'er the wall;
The rusted chestnuts shivering spill
Their bursting spine-burrs on the hill;
The day is short, soon comes the night,
And damp and chill
Along the hill
The dews distil
Under the harvest-moon's great light.
Louder at eve the river roars;
The fringed acacia paves with showers
Of golden leaves our summer path,
And all the world about us hath
A feel of sorrow—we must go;
Alas! I would not have it so,
But all things vanish from us here,
And still we sigh,
Ah why, ah why,
So swiftly fly,
Ye days that were so glad and dear?
The fringed acacia paves with showers
Of golden leaves our summer path,
And all the world about us hath
A feel of sorrow—we must go;
Alas! I would not have it so,
But all things vanish from us here,
And still we sigh,
Ah why, ah why,
So swiftly fly,
Ye days that were so glad and dear?
160
'T is lovely still; but yet a sense
Of sadness and impermanence
Disturbs me—and this flushing grace
That mantles over Autumn's face
Is but the hectic hue, beneath
Whose beauty steals the thought of death,—
And this it is that makes us sigh.
Ah! bitter word
Too often heard,
What thoughts are stirred
Whene'er we whisper thee—Good-bye!
Of sadness and impermanence
Disturbs me—and this flushing grace
That mantles over Autumn's face
Is but the hectic hue, beneath
Whose beauty steals the thought of death,—
And this it is that makes us sigh.
Ah! bitter word
Too often heard,
What thoughts are stirred
Whene'er we whisper thee—Good-bye!
Death walks along my shrouded thought;
I feel him though I see him not:
His step is on the joys that grew
And waved this lovely summer through.
I fear, for life is all too fair,
And trembling ask, Ah! when? and where?
And this it is that makes me sigh;
Too sweet to last,
Ah! golden past
That fled so fast,
No future owns such witchery.
I feel him though I see him not:
His step is on the joys that grew
And waved this lovely summer through.
I fear, for life is all too fair,
And trembling ask, Ah! when? and where?
And this it is that makes me sigh;
Too sweet to last,
Ah! golden past
That fled so fast,
No future owns such witchery.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |