Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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| AUTUMNAL LEAVES. |
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 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
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AUTUMNAL LEAVES.
I. MAPLE.
When withered leaves around my way
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast,
I view them, as they rustling play,
As Summer's phantoms flitting past.
In some still nook, or sheltering lee
Of roaring woods, they seem to me
When resting from their eddying flight,
To build departed Summer's urn;
Where Phœbus pours a saddened light
Like moonlight fanned to burn.
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast,
I view them, as they rustling play,
As Summer's phantoms flitting past.
In some still nook, or sheltering lee
Of roaring woods, they seem to me
When resting from their eddying flight,
To build departed Summer's urn;
Where Phœbus pours a saddened light
Like moonlight fanned to burn.
The rivulet lowers its babbling voice,
Past its brown banks runs dreamily;
It seems to take, as if from choice,
The melancholy minor key.
All nature's full of sympathy:
The winds and waters, woods and plains,
Together blend their dirge-like strains;
The lonely bird forbears to sing;
Grief-stifled seems each tuneful throat;
E'en darker grows the raven's wing,
And desert-like his note.
Past its brown banks runs dreamily;
It seems to take, as if from choice,
The melancholy minor key.
All nature's full of sympathy:
The winds and waters, woods and plains,
Together blend their dirge-like strains;
The lonely bird forbears to sing;
Grief-stifled seems each tuneful throat;
E'en darker grows the raven's wing,
And desert-like his note.
The herd-boy, keeping watch a-field
Beside the late outstanding grain,
Marks leaves in gusty circles wheeled
And scattered o'er the russet plain;
Or sees the wavy-line that floats
In the gray rack to flute-like notes;
Wild fowl are harrowing the sky,
The early harbingers of snow;
Far southward on his straining eye
All indistinct they grow.
Beside the late outstanding grain,
Marks leaves in gusty circles wheeled
And scattered o'er the russet plain;
Or sees the wavy-line that floats
In the gray rack to flute-like notes;
Wild fowl are harrowing the sky,
The early harbingers of snow;
Far southward on his straining eye
All indistinct they grow.
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The dying winds, as sets the sun,
Usher the gloaming and expire;
The frosty stars gleam, one by one,
Like ice reflecting distant fire.
The moon awaits her time to rise
To bathe with her cold light the skies;
The frost king creeps in stillness forth;
While shooting upward high and higher,
The nameless wizard of the north
Kindles his ghostly fire.
Usher the gloaming and expire;
The frosty stars gleam, one by one,
Like ice reflecting distant fire.
The moon awaits her time to rise
To bathe with her cold light the skies;
The frost king creeps in stillness forth;
While shooting upward high and higher,
The nameless wizard of the north
Kindles his ghostly fire.
The peasant homeward hieing now,
Belated, turns his thoughtful gaze,
And sees on high the starry “Plough”
Pale through the evanescent blaze.
Thoughts, sad yet pleasing, crowd his mind;
Thoughts formless half, and half defined,
Such as the bard and painter feel,
But fail to picture or to sing;
Thoughts that of genius fix the seal
And point her upward wing!
Belated, turns his thoughtful gaze,
And sees on high the starry “Plough”
Pale through the evanescent blaze.
Thoughts, sad yet pleasing, crowd his mind;
Thoughts formless half, and half defined,
Such as the bard and painter feel,
But fail to picture or to sing;
Thoughts that of genius fix the seal
And point her upward wing!
The hunter, camped beside the spring,
Where the red maple sheltering stands,
As low the welling waters sing,
And cheerful shine his blazing brands,
Moodily muses as his eye
Watches the flashing northern sky,
And dreams in Odin's distant hall
Hunters some kingly banquet share,
And he, one day, when Death shall call,
Shall mingle with them there.
Where the red maple sheltering stands,
As low the welling waters sing,
And cheerful shine his blazing brands,
Moodily muses as his eye
Watches the flashing northern sky,
And dreams in Odin's distant hall
Hunters some kingly banquet share,
And he, one day, when Death shall call,
Shall mingle with them there.
When withered leaves around my way
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast,
I look upon them as they play,
As Summer's phantoms flitting past.
In stilly nook, or sheltering lee
Of waving woods, they seem to me,
When gathering from their eddying flight,
To build departed Summer's urn,
Where Phœbus pours a mellowed light
Like moonlight fanned to burn.
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast,
I look upon them as they play,
As Summer's phantoms flitting past.
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Of waving woods, they seem to me,
When gathering from their eddying flight,
To build departed Summer's urn,
Where Phœbus pours a mellowed light
Like moonlight fanned to burn.
II. CHESTNUT.
How beautiful the picture is that nature spreads to-day!
For autumn clothes her second-born in fanciful array;
And through the hazy lift the sun a softened splendor sends,
That wraps the scene in quietude,—a sweet enchantment lends.
For autumn clothes her second-born in fanciful array;
And through the hazy lift the sun a softened splendor sends,
That wraps the scene in quietude,—a sweet enchantment lends.
How like to elves in elfin land yon troop of children go,
Turning the hill-side leaves to find the bright brown nut below!
And every treasure brings a shout, and brings all there to see,
Like as the eddying gust collects the honors of the tree.
Turning the hill-side leaves to find the bright brown nut below!
And every treasure brings a shout, and brings all there to see,
Like as the eddying gust collects the honors of the tree.
The jay, that in the summer days was scarcely seen at all,
Flits frequent through the pictured bush, and startles with its call,
And seems to warn its feathered mates, with quick and earnest cries,
Beware of Winter's biting breath, and bitter scowling skies!
Flits frequent through the pictured bush, and startles with its call,
And seems to warn its feathered mates, with quick and earnest cries,
Beware of Winter's biting breath, and bitter scowling skies!
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The squirrel on the mossy log, within the hollow wood,
Clucks loud to tell that he's secured a store of winter food;
His kinsman clad in “hoddin gray,” the hunter fain would see,
With tiny claws goes scratching up the rough, nut-bearing tree.
Clucks loud to tell that he's secured a store of winter food;
His kinsman clad in “hoddin gray,” the hunter fain would see,
With tiny claws goes scratching up the rough, nut-bearing tree.
The duck, within the dented shore, where spreads the mimic bay,
Sits silent, motionless, save when a ripple rounds away;
And seems to watch the colored tints reflected from below,
Or list Dominion's coming step, so stealthy, and so slow!
Sits silent, motionless, save when a ripple rounds away;
And seems to watch the colored tints reflected from below,
Or list Dominion's coming step, so stealthy, and so slow!
I see the waters of the brook, that in the summer time
Went singing onward down the vale, a kind of “catch-me” chime,—
Now seem to linger by the bank, and linger by the brae,
As if all loth, from such a scene, to run in haste away.
Went singing onward down the vale, a kind of “catch-me” chime,—
Now seem to linger by the bank, and linger by the brae,
As if all loth, from such a scene, to run in haste away.
Can fairy land,—can “land of dreams,” such scene enchanting show?
So soft the heavens smile above! so glad the earth below!
As if millennial angels had their banners bright unfurled,
And Peace, dear Peace! her censer swung in sweetness o'er the world!
So soft the heavens smile above! so glad the earth below!
As if millennial angels had their banners bright unfurled,
And Peace, dear Peace! her censer swung in sweetness o'er the world!
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III. ASH.
Sounds the rooster's wakeful warning:
'T is a damp and foggy morning,
Thick and gray;
Sure the shades of night are fled,
But there's something else instead
Of the day.
'T is the night, painted white,
And the eye is unavailing
In the vapor all assailing
With its shroud;
We are gloom'd, gloom'd, gloom'd!
All the landscape is entombed
In a cloud!
'T is a damp and foggy morning,
Thick and gray;
Sure the shades of night are fled,
But there's something else instead
Of the day.
'T is the night, painted white,
And the eye is unavailing
In the vapor all assailing
With its shroud;
We are gloom'd, gloom'd, gloom'd!
All the landscape is entombed
In a cloud!
'T is the time when winds are sighing,
And the leaves—they are dying,
And are dead;
See the ashes, tall and slim,
Standing by the water's brim,
Where they fed;
How they shed all their dead
Summer plumes that hid the nest
Where the birdie took its rest
'Mid the leaves!
Down dripping, dripping, dripping,
Like the rain, softly slipping,
From the eaves.
And the leaves—they are dying,
And are dead;
See the ashes, tall and slim,
Standing by the water's brim,
Where they fed;
How they shed all their dead
Summer plumes that hid the nest
Where the birdie took its rest
'Mid the leaves!
Down dripping, dripping, dripping,
Like the rain, softly slipping,
From the eaves.
There 's a sort of muffled drumming,
For the distant mill is humming,
Grinding grist;
And the fisher-king is winging,
And his clacking rattle springing
In the mist:
And I hear, seeming near,
As it were, the distant greeting
Of two early goers, meeting—
Strangely loud;
And the clipper, clipper, clipper!
How the wings of that “dipper”
Cut the cloud!
For the distant mill is humming,
Grinding grist;
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And his clacking rattle springing
In the mist:
And I hear, seeming near,
As it were, the distant greeting
Of two early goers, meeting—
Strangely loud;
And the clipper, clipper, clipper!
How the wings of that “dipper”
Cut the cloud!
But the sun at last is wading
Through the vapor overshading—
There he shines!
And the curtain, upward stealing,
Slow the landscape is revealing,
“To the Nines.”
Stooks of grain on the plain
Look like wigwams on the prairie,
Some encampment of the wary
Brothers red;
And with tittle, tattle, tattle,
Waters sparkle as they prattle
O'er their bed.
Through the vapor overshading—
There he shines!
And the curtain, upward stealing,
Slow the landscape is revealing,
“To the Nines.”
Stooks of grain on the plain
Look like wigwams on the prairie,
Some encampment of the wary
Brothers red;
And with tittle, tattle, tattle,
Waters sparkle as they prattle
O'er their bed.
But the eye of day is dimmer
Than in summer; has a glimmer
Palely bright;
Phœbus wearies of his toil,
Or is getting short of oil
For his light.
But the flowers still are ours:
There's a honeysuckle twining,
And the golden-rod is shining,
Bright to view;
And, oh! bonnie, bonnie, bonnie!
There's the fringy little honey,
Gentian blue!
Than in summer; has a glimmer
Palely bright;
Phœbus wearies of his toil,
Or is getting short of oil
For his light.
But the flowers still are ours:
There's a honeysuckle twining,
And the golden-rod is shining,
Bright to view;
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There's the fringy little honey,
Gentian blue!
And the days are shorter growing:
Down the Occidental going,
Sinks the sun;
And the stars that night adorn,
Clip the twilight, and are born,
All as one.
Oh, my soul! so they roll—
Roll the days, the months, the years!
Full of gladness, full of tears
Are our eyes;
Till, solemn, solemn, solemn,
Foots the sum-total column:
Here he lies!
Down the Occidental going,
Sinks the sun;
And the stars that night adorn,
Clip the twilight, and are born,
All as one.
Oh, my soul! so they roll—
Roll the days, the months, the years!
Full of gladness, full of tears
Are our eyes;
Till, solemn, solemn, solemn,
Foots the sum-total column:
Here he lies!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |