AUTUMN.

As a harvester, at dusk,

Faring down some woody trail

Leading homeward through the musk

Of may-apple and pawpaw,

Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,—

So comes Autumn, swart and hale,

Drooped of frame and slow of stride.

But withal an air of pride

Looming up in stature far

Higher than his shoulders are;

Weary both in arm and limb,

Yet the wholesome heart of him

Sheer at rest and satisfied.

Greet him as with glee of drums

And glad cymbals, as he comes!

Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.

He the Emperor — the King —

Royal lord of everything

Sagging Plenty's granary floors

And out-bulging all her doors;

He the god of corn and wine,

Honey, milk, and fruit and oil —

Lord of feast, as lord of toil —

Jocund host of yours and mine!

Ho! the revel of his laugh!—

Half is sound of winds, and half

Roar of ruddy blazes drawn

Up the throats of chimneys wide,

Circling which, from side to side,

Faces — lit as by the Dawn,

With her highest tintings on

Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin —

Smile at some old fairy-tale

Of enchanted lovers, in

Silken gown and coat of mail,

With a retinue of elves

Merry as their very selves,

Trooping ever, hand in hand,

Down the dales of Wonderland.

Then the glory of his song!—

Lifting up his dreamy eyes —

Singing haze across the skies;

Singing clouds that trail along

Towering tops of trees that seize

Tufts of them to stanch the breeze;

Singing slanted strands of rain

In between the sky and earth,

For the lyre to mate the mirth

And the might of his refrain:

Singing southward-flying birds

Down to us, and afterwards

Singing them to flight again;

Singing blushes to the cheeks

Of the leaves upon the trees —

Singing on and changing these

Into pallor, slowly wrought,

Till the little, moaning creeks

Bear them to their last farewell,

As Elaine, the lovable,

Was borne down to Lancelot.—

Singing drip of tears, and then

Drying them with smiles again.

Singing apple, peach and grape,

Into roundest, plumpest shape,

Rosy ripeness to the face

Of the pippin; and the grace

Of the dainty stamin-tip

To the huge bulk of the pear,

Pendant in the green caress

Of the leaves, and glowing through

With the tawny laziness

Of the gold that Ophir knew,—

Haply, too, within its rind

Such a cleft as bees may find,

Bungling on it half aware.

And wherein to see them sip

Fancy lifts an oozy lip,

And the singer's falter there.

Sweet as swallows swimming through

Eddyings of dusk and dew,

Singing happy scenes of home

Back to sight of eager eyes

That have longed for them to come,

Till their coming is surprise

Uttered only by the rush

Of quick tears and prayerful hush;

Singing on, in clearer key,

Hearty palms of you and me

Into grasps that tingle still

Rapturous, and ever will!

Singing twank and twang of strings —

Trill of flute and clarinet

In a melody that rings

Like the tunes we used to play,

And our dreams are playing yet!

Singing lovers, long astray,

Each to each, and, sweeter things —

Singing in their marriage-day,

And a banquet holding all

These delights for festival.