Poems (Chitwood)/An Autumnal Song
AN AUTUMNAL SONG.
The frost has fallen like a blight,
And the leaves are trembling down—
And some are tinged with golden light,
And some are crimson and brown;
While the meek-eyed flowers have gone to rest
Like little children at night;
But they wake not, covered with smiles again,
When the distant east grows bright.
Oh, the meek-eyed flowers! the meek-eyed flowers!
What beautiful gifts to us are given
To charm our weary hours!
And the leaves are trembling down—
And some are tinged with golden light,
And some are crimson and brown;
While the meek-eyed flowers have gone to rest
Like little children at night;
But they wake not, covered with smiles again,
When the distant east grows bright.
Oh, the meek-eyed flowers! the meek-eyed flowers!
What beautiful gifts to us are given
To charm our weary hours!
The birds are singing amid the trees,
But their notes seem sad and low;
And the grasshopper chirps in the waving grass
Memories of long ago.
The south wind sighs, for he misses now
The hand of the summer so sweet,
That scattered roses along his path,
And dew-drops at his feet.
Oh, the soft south breeze! the soft south breeze!
How it thrills my heart as it sighs along,
And whispers among the trees.
But their notes seem sad and low;
And the grasshopper chirps in the waving grass
Memories of long ago.
The south wind sighs, for he misses now
The hand of the summer so sweet,
That scattered roses along his path,
And dew-drops at his feet.
Oh, the soft south breeze! the soft south breeze!
How it thrills my heart as it sighs along,
And whispers among the trees.
'Tis the Autumn time, that sad sweet time,
And there cometh now to me,
My friend, 'mid the leaves and fading flowers,
Sweet memories of thee;
Of the good old times, the good old times,
In the sunny morn of life,
Of the happy hours, when like the flowers,
Our hearts with odors were rife.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
My fond heart singeth of them, to-night,
In strange melodious rhymes.
And there cometh now to me,
My friend, 'mid the leaves and fading flowers,
Sweet memories of thee;
Of the good old times, the good old times,
In the sunny morn of life,
Of the happy hours, when like the flowers,
Our hearts with odors were rife.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
My fond heart singeth of them, to-night,
In strange melodious rhymes.
I see our home, our early home,
On the gently sloping hill;
And the winding stream that swept along
'Mid the willows, soft and still;
And the orchard, too, with its golden store,
And the walnut in the lane,
With the grape-vine clinging around its limbs—
I see them all again.
Oh, the orchard sweet! the orchard sweet!
How oft we found on its short soft grass
A rest for our weary feet!
On the gently sloping hill;
And the winding stream that swept along
'Mid the willows, soft and still;
And the orchard, too, with its golden store,
And the walnut in the lane,
With the grape-vine clinging around its limbs—
I see them all again.
Oh, the orchard sweet! the orchard sweet!
How oft we found on its short soft grass
A rest for our weary feet!
I will twine a wreath of faded flowers,
I will twine a wreath for thee,
As emblem of our childhood hopes,
That faded so silently;
I will think of thee, long cherished one,
In these mild Autumnal eves;
I will call thy image before me now,
'Mid the fading flowers and leaves.
Oh, the faded flowers! the withered flowers!
They tell to me how the bright hopes died,
That sprang in our childhood hours.
I will twine a wreath for thee,
As emblem of our childhood hopes,
That faded so silently;
I will think of thee, long cherished one,
In these mild Autumnal eves;
I will call thy image before me now,
'Mid the fading flowers and leaves.
Oh, the faded flowers! the withered flowers!
They tell to me how the bright hopes died,
That sprang in our childhood hours.