AUTUMN IDLENESS

This sunlight shames November where he grieves

In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun

The day, though bough with bough be over-run.

But with a blessing every glade receives

High salutation; while from hillock-eaves

The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun,

As if, being foresters of old, the sun

Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves.

Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass;

Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew;

Till eve bring rest when other good things pass.

And here the lost hours the lost hours renew

While I still lead my shadow o'er the grass,

Nor know, for longing, that which I should do.