 | The Autumn Garden |  |
36
To a Portuguese Measure
If all the stars that glitter
In heaven's high cope, should topple from their places,—
If all the fruits turned bitter
That soothe us with suave graces,
If all young girls bore sad and shrunken faces;
In heaven's high cope, should topple from their places,—
If all the fruits turned bitter
That soothe us with suave graces,
If all young girls bore sad and shrunken faces;
If shivering months should bind us
In chains of darkness, forged of frozen Summer,
With dull dead Spring behind us,
And Autumn growing dumber,
And ice within the beard of each new-comer;
In chains of darkness, forged of frozen Summer,
With dull dead Spring behind us,
And Autumn growing dumber,
And ice within the beard of each new-comer;
Yet Memory the Beguiler
Would tune her rapid notes in brisk division,
And Fancy, roseate Smiler,
Would build up dreams elysian,
And warm the heart of man with joyful vision.
Would tune her rapid notes in brisk division,
And Fancy, roseate Smiler,
Would build up dreams elysian,
And warm the heart of man with joyful vision.
| The Autumn Garden | |