Welcome Guest Login

I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shad

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!.

Submit Your Poetry

by:- admin posted in:- thomas hood

Comments are closed. :(