Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature By Charles Mackay |
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THE RED AND YELLOW LEAF IN OCTOBER. |
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 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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THE RED AND YELLOW LEAF IN OCTOBER.
Not when the jocund Spring arose,
And, smiling off the winter snows,
Released thee from the bursting bud,
With all thy sisters of the wood,
And bared thee, tender, fresh, and green,
To morning flush and evening sheen,
Wert thou, old leaf upon the bough,
So softly beautiful as now.
And, smiling off the winter snows,
Released thee from the bursting bud,
With all thy sisters of the wood,
And bared thee, tender, fresh, and green,
To morning flush and evening sheen,
Wert thou, old leaf upon the bough,
So softly beautiful as now.
Not when the radiant Summer trod,
Gift-bearing, o'er the expectant sod,
And shot from all his eyes of fire,
Fruition to the Earth's desire,
And spread thy surface to the storm
In ripe maturity of form,
Wert thou so fair as now thou art,
When all thy youthful charms depart.
Gift-bearing, o'er the expectant sod,
And shot from all his eyes of fire,
Fruition to the Earth's desire,
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In ripe maturity of form,
Wert thou so fair as now thou art,
When all thy youthful charms depart.
October, with his warning breath,
Hath whispered of approaching death;
And sprinkled o'er thy smiling face
A new, but melancholy grace,
Of gorgeous hues, more deftly planned
Than all the Summer could command—
Of amber, purple, red, and gold,
To crown thee, now thou'rt growing old.
Hath whispered of approaching death;
And sprinkled o'er thy smiling face
A new, but melancholy grace,
Of gorgeous hues, more deftly planned
Than all the Summer could command—
Of amber, purple, red, and gold,
To crown thee, now thou'rt growing old.
So among us, green leaves of men,
That flourish threescore years and ten,
All is not loss that dims our day,
And robs us of the pride of May:
The vernal bloom, the Summer glow,
Leave kindly traces as they go;
And Man's old age, if true and brave,
Marches in glory to the grave.
That flourish threescore years and ten,
All is not loss that dims our day,
And robs us of the pride of May:
The vernal bloom, the Summer glow,
Leave kindly traces as they go;
And Man's old age, if true and brave,
Marches in glory to the grave.
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |