 | The Autumn Garden |  |
56
Melancholy in the Garden
I
The winds that dash these August dahlias down,
And chase the streams of light across the grass,
This solemn watery air, like clouded glass,
This perfume on the terrace bare and brown,
And chase the streams of light across the grass,
This solemn watery air, like clouded glass,
This perfume on the terrace bare and brown,
Are like the soundless flush of full renown
That gathers with the gathering years that pass,
And weaves for happy, glorious life, alas!
Of sorrow and of solitude a crown.
That gathers with the gathering years that pass,
And weaves for happy, glorious life, alas!
Of sorrow and of solitude a crown.
I know not what this load is on my heart,
But in these alleys I have loved so long,
Filled from old years with retrospect and song,
But in these alleys I have loved so long,
Filled from old years with retrospect and song,
I wander aimless, ready to depart,
Prepared to welcome, with no frightened start,
The fatal spectre and the shrouded throng.
Prepared to welcome, with no frightened start,
The fatal spectre and the shrouded throng.
57
II
“Nature hath spent at last her shining store,
And I have lived my day,” the painter said,
Who felt the arrowy throe, the dizzied head,
And laid his palette down for evermore.
And I have lived my day,” the painter said,
Who felt the arrowy throe, the dizzied head,
And laid his palette down for evermore.
Well had he learned the melancholy lore
That trains the rose, without a murmur made,
To break the clusters of her royal red,
And strew her beauty on the windy shore.
That trains the rose, without a murmur made,
To break the clusters of her royal red,
And strew her beauty on the windy shore.
Some warning, surely, must I read to-night,
In flower and tree, in flying light and cloud;
It is the voice of Death, not near, nor loud,
In flower and tree, in flying light and cloud;
It is the voice of Death, not near, nor loud,
But whispering from some cypress out of sight,
That bids me hearken for the feathery flight,
And draw my robes across my shoulders bowed.
That bids me hearken for the feathery flight,
And draw my robes across my shoulders bowed.
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