I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand
shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence,
for no lonely bird would sing
Into his
hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly
hedge nor solitary thorn;—
Shaking his
languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled
gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his
coronet of golden corn.
Where are the
songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Oping the
dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and
silence waken up as one,
And Morning
sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the
merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting
wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should
prey
Undazzled at
noonday,
And tear with
horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the
blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their
last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild
Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful
Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most
gloomy breast.
Where is the
pride of Summer,—the green prime,—
The many, many
leaves all twinkling?—Three
On the moss'd
elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—and
one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the
Dryad's immortality?—
Gone into
mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the
long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth
holly's green eternity.
The squirrel
gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have
brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees
have stored
The sweets of
Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows
all have wing'd across the main;
But here the
Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her
tearful spells
Amongst the
sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy
stone,
She sits and
reckons up the dead and gone
With the last
leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the
wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim
picture of the drownèd past
In the hush'd
mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what
ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that
distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit
with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the
languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a
coronal of flowers faded
Upon her
forehead, and a face of care;—
There is enough
of wither'd everywhere
To make her
bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is
enough of sadness to invite,
If only for
the rose that died, whose doom
Is
Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious
cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough
of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of
bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of
chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear
and shadowy despair,
To frame her
cloudy prison for the soul!
Thomas Hood, "Autumn"
