| |
| THE AUTUMN seems to cry for thee, | |
| Best lover of the autumn days! | |
| Each scarlet-tipped and wine-red tree, | |
| Each russet branch and branch of gold, | |
| Gleams through its veil of shimmering haze, | 5 |
| And seeks thee as they sought of old: | |
| For all the glory of their dress, | |
| They wear a look of wistfulness. | |
| |
| In every wood I see thee stand, | |
| The ruddy boughs above thy head, | 10 |
| And heaped in either slender hand | |
| The frosted white and amber ferns, | |
| The sumach’s deep, resplendent red, | |
| Which like a fiery feather burns, | |
| And, over all, thy happy eyes, | 15 |
| Shining as clear as autumn skies. | |
| |
| I hear thy call upon the breeze, | |
| Gay as the dancing wind, and sweet, | |
| And, underneath the radiant trees, | |
| O’er lichens gray and darkling moss, | 20 |
| Follow the trace of those light feet | |
| Which never were at fault or loss, | |
| But, by some forest instinct led, | |
| Knew where to turn and how to tread. | |
| |
| Where art thou, comrade true and tried? | 25 |
| The woodlands call for thee in vain, | |
| And sadly burns the autumn-tide | |
| Before my eyes, made dim and blind | |
| By blurring, puzzling mists of pain. | |
| I look before, I look behind; | 30 |
| Beauty and loss seem everywhere, | |
| And grief and glory fill the air. | |
| |
| Already, in these few short weeks, | |
| A hundred things I leave unsaid, | |
| Because there is no voice that speaks | 35 |
| In answer, and no listening ear, | |
| No one to care now thou art dead! | |
| And month by month, and year by year, | |
| I shall but miss thee more, and go | |
| With half my thought untold, I know. | 40 |
| |
| I do not think thou hast forgot, | |
| I know that I shall not forget, | |
| And some day, glad, but wondering not, | |
| We two shall meet, and, face to face, | |
| In still, fair fields unseen as yet, | 45 |
| Shall talk of each old time and place, | |
| And smile at pain interpreted | |
| By wisdom learned since we were dead. | |
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