The Fall of the Leaves

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,The regiments of autumn stood:I saw their gold and scarlet glowingFrom every hillside, every wood.

Above the sea the clouds were keepingTheir secret leaguer, gray and still;They sent their misty vanguard creepingWith muffled step from hill to hill.

All day the sullen armies driftedAthwart the sky with slanting rain;At sunset for a space they lifted,With dusk they settled down again.

At dark the winds began to blowWith mutterings distant, low;From sea and sky they called their strengthTill with an angry, broken roar,Like billows on an unseen shore,Their fury burst at length.

I heard through the nightThe rush and the clamour;The pulse of the fightLike blows of Thor's hammer;The pattering flightOf the leaves, and the anguishedMoan of the forest vanquished.

At daybreak came a gusty song:"Shout! the winds are strong.The little people of the leaves are fled.Shout! The Autumn is dead!"

The storm is ended! The impartial sunLaughs down upon the battle lost and won,And crowns the triumph of the cloudy hostIn rolling lines retreating to the coast.

But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade,And grateful friends of every fallen leaf,Forget the glories of the cloud-parade,And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeatOn fields of triumph dirges of defeat;And still we turn on gala-days to treadAmong the rustling memories of the dead.