 | Spindrift |  |
177
AUTUMN.
The air is chill with winter's rimy breath,Birds silent cower apart on shrivelled spray,
Darkness invades the azure realms of Day,
All life seems over-blowing into Death.
Yet on the wall the plum grows dark and mellow,
On orchard paths red apples patter down,
The chestnut in the dank wood gathers brown,
And on the hill the stooks gleam golden-yellow.
Autumn once more has crowned the vading year
With fulness, and in joy brings home her sheaves,
Nor for the buried blooms of summer grieves.—
But I—with whom, too, life is in the sear—
Can I rejoice—springtime and summer gone,
And on my barren boughs but withered leaves alone?
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