AUTUMN COMMUNION
This autumn afternoon
My fancy need invent
No untried sacrament.
Man can still commune
With Beauty as of old:
The tree, the wind's lyre,
The whirling dust, the fire—
In these my faith is told.
My fancy need invent
No untried sacrament.
Man can still commune
With Beauty as of old:
The tree, the wind's lyre,
The whirling dust, the fire—
In these my faith is told.
Beauty warms us all:
When horizons crimson burn,
We hold heaven's cup in turn.
The dry leaves, gleaming, fall,
Crumbs of mystical bread;
My dole of Beauty I break,
Love to my lips I take,
And fear is quieted.
When horizons crimson burn,
We hold heaven's cup in turn.
The dry leaves, gleaming, fall,
Crumbs of mystical bread;
My dole of Beauty I break,
Love to my lips I take,
And fear is quieted.
The symbols of old are made new:
I watch the reeds and the rushes;
The spruce trees dip their brushes
In the mountain's dusky blue:
The sky is deep like a pool;
A fragrance the wind brings over
I watch the reeds and the rushes;
The spruce trees dip their brushes
In the mountain's dusky blue:
The sky is deep like a pool;
A fragrance the wind brings over
[6]
