Autumn

Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;

And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thy own foot makes betray thine home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end:

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crowd the water’s brim;

Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,Where, step by step, the patient lonely boyHath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;

Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise,The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed,And struggles through the weedsWith faint and sullen brawl.--

These haunts I long have favoured, more as nowWith thee thus wandering, moralizing on;Stealing glad thoughts from grief,And happy, though I sigh.

Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair,And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace,Fain would I win thine harpTo one accordant theme.

Now not inaptly craved, communing thus,Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak,While pillowed on the grass,We fondly ruminate

O’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields,Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep,Pastures tracked deep with cows,Where small birds seek for seed:

Marking the cow-boy that so merry trillsHis frequent, unpremeditated song,Wooing the winds to pause,Till echo brawls again;

As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon,He roves, half indolent and self-employed,To rob the little birdsOf hips and pendant haws,

And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils,And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet,Arching their prickly trailsHalf o’er the narrow lane:

Noting the hedger front with stubborn faceThe dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly byHis leathern garb, thorn proof,And cheek red hot with toil;

While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown,The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his footThe ever ekeing whisp,With sharp and sudden jerk,

Till into formal rows the russet shocksCrowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns,And hovels rude repair,Stript by disturbing winds.

See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hareScampers circuitous, with startled earsPrickt up, then squat, as byShe brushes to the woods,

Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed,Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing windsSoften her rigid fears,And lull to calm repose.

Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights,More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes,Where, jostled in the din,Joy palled my ear with song;

Heart-sickening for the silence, that is hereNot broken inharmoniously, as nowThat lone and vagrant beeBooms faint with weary chime.

Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsIn tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold, and die.

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.

And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;

Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of waste, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;

While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.

Thy life is waning now, and Silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;

To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought awayThen from thine ivy’d tranceAwake to glories new.