Autumn

One night, when dreaming over ancient books,There came to me a sudden far-off soundFrom the south-west. I listened, wondering,As on it crept: at first a gentle sigh,Like as a spirit passing; then it swelledInto the roaring of great waves that smiteThe broken vanguard of the cliff: the rageOf storm-black tigers in the startled nightAmong the jackals of the wind and rain.It burst upon the hanging bell, and setThe silver pendants chattering. It seemedA muffled march of soldiers hurriedlySped to the night attack with muffled mouths,When no command is heard, only the trampOf men and horses onward. "Boy," said I,"What sound is that? Go forth and see." My boy,Returning, answered, "Lord! the moon and allHer stars shine fair; the silver river spansThe sky. No sound of man is heard without;'Tis but a whisper of the trees." "Alas!"I cried, "then Autumn is upon us now.'Tis thus, O boy, that Autumn comes, the coldPitiless autumn of the wrack and mist,Autumn, the season of the cloudless sky,Autumn, of biting blasts, the time of blightAnd desolation; following the chillStir of disaster, with a shout it leapsUpon us. All the gorgeous pageantryOf green is changed. All the proud foliageOf the crested forests is shorn, and shrivels downBeneath the blade of ice. For this is Autumn,Nature's chief executioner. It takesThe darkness for a symbol. It assumesThe temper of proven steel. Its symbol isA sharpened sword. The avenging fiend, it ridesUpon an atmosphere of death. As Spring,Mother of many-coloured birth, doth rearThe young light-hearted world, so Autumn drainsThe nectar of the world's maturity.And sad the hour when all ripe things must pass,For sweetness and decay are of one stem,And sweetness ever riots to decay.Still, what availeth it? The trees will fallIn their due season. Sorrow cannot keepThe plants from fading. Stay! there yet is man --Man, the divinest of all things, whose heartHath known the shipwreck of a thousand hopes,Who bears a hundred wrinkled tragediesUpon the parchment of his brow, whose soulStrange cares have lined and interlined, untilBeneath the burden of life his inmost selfBows down. And swifter still he seeks decayWhen groping for the unattainableOr grieving over continents unknown.Then come the snows of time. Are they not due?Is man of adamant he should outlastThe giants of the grove? Yet after allWho is it that saps his strength save man alone?Tell me, O boy, by what imagined rightMan doth accuse his Autumn blast?" My boySlumbered and answered not. The cricket gaveThe only answer to my song of death.