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Autumn.
AUTUMN.
THE hazel tips that yellow in the light
Along the border of the moss-grown wall
Like gleaming threads of gold; the echoed call
Of quail amid the rustling foliage bright;
The sense of something lost, of past delight;
These all are thine, O saddening Autumn! All
That might have been or was, of great or small,
Of grave or gay, presses upon the sight.
The soul grows grave although it counts its gain—
The gleanings of the summer of the heart—
It is the summer we regret in vain,
Which we have spent in toil. Deceitful art!
That makes a glorious present seem but pain,
While in the search for what must now depart.
Along the border of the moss-grown wall
Like gleaming threads of gold; the echoed call
Of quail amid the rustling foliage bright;
The sense of something lost, of past delight;
These all are thine, O saddening Autumn! All
That might have been or was, of great or small,
Of grave or gay, presses upon the sight.
The soul grows grave although it counts its gain—
The gleanings of the summer of the heart—
It is the summer we regret in vain,
Which we have spent in toil. Deceitful art!
That makes a glorious present seem but pain,
While in the search for what must now depart.
