The soft October rains
Had left some scarlet stains
Of color on the landscape's neutral ground;
Those fine ephemeral things,
The winged motes of sound,
That sing the "Harvest Home"
Of ripe Autumn in the gloam
Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river,
Sang that day their best endeavor.
I said: "In what sweet place
Shall we meet face to face,
Her loveliest self to see—
Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites,
And learn the mystery
Of her unnamed delights?"
Then you said: "Let us go
Where the late violets blow
In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;—
We'll find she's there abiding."
Do we recall that day?
Has its grace passed away?
Its tenderest, dream-like tone,
Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air—
Has its fine perfume flown
And left the memory bare?
Not so; its charm is still
Over wood, vale and hill—
The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus,
The spirit that before us
Enticed us with delights
