Autumn Regrets

That I were Keats! And with a golden pen

Could for all time preserve these golden days

In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,

Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze

With silent joy upon sweet Autumn's face,

And not record in any wise its grace!

Alas! But I am even dumb as they —

I cannot bid the fleeting hours stay,

Nor chain one moment on a page's space.

That I were Grieg! Then, with a haunting air

Of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains

Would I express my love of Autumn fair

With all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains:

And with fantastic melodies inspire

A memory of each mad sunset's fire

In which the day goes slowly to its death

As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath

Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds’ choir.

That I were Corot! Then September's gold

Would I store up in painted treasuries

That, when the world seemed grey I could behold

Its blazing colour with sweet memories,

And each elusive colour would be mine

That decorates these afternoons benign.

Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue

Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue

Of sky and haze, with genius divine.

How sad these wishes! When I have no art

Of poetry, or music, or of brush,

With which to calm the swelling of my heart

By capturing the misty country's hush

In muted violins; I cannot hymn

The shadowy silence of the copses dim;

Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.

Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,

When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!