Poems (May)/A song for autumn
A SONG FOR AUTUMN.
Frighten the bird from the tasselled pine,
Where he sings like a hope in a gloomy breast;
Tread down the blossoms that cling to the vine,
Winnow the blooms from the mountain's crest!
Let the balm-flower sleep where the small brooks twine,
And the golden-rod treasure the yellow sunshine.
Where he sings like a hope in a gloomy breast;
Tread down the blossoms that cling to the vine,
Winnow the blooms from the mountain's crest!
Let the balm-flower sleep where the small brooks twine,
And the golden-rod treasure the yellow sunshine.
Muffle the bells of the faint-lipped waves,
Let the red leaves fall. Let the brown fawn leap
Through the golden fern. In the weedy caves
Let the snake coil up for his winter sleep;
Let the ringed-snake coil where the earth is drear,
Like a grief that grows cold as the heart grows sere!
Let the red leaves fall. Let the brown fawn leap
Through the golden fern. In the weedy caves
Let the snake coil up for his winter sleep;
Let the ringed-snake coil where the earth is drear,
Like a grief that grows cold as the heart grows sere!
Pluck down the rainbow; make steadfast the throne
Of the star that was faint in the summer night!
Let the white daughters of wave and sun
Weep as they cloister the pale, pale light.
Let the mist-wreaths brood o'er the valley-bound rills,
And the sky trail its mantle far over the hills.
Of the star that was faint in the summer night!
Let the white daughters of wave and sun
Weep as they cloister the pale, pale light.
Let the mist-wreaths brood o'er the valley-bound rills,
And the sky trail its mantle far over the hills.
Plunder the wrecks of the forest, and blind
The waters that picture its ruinous dome!
Wildly, oh, wildly, most sorrowful wind,
Chant, like a prophet, of terror to come!
Like a Niobe stricken with infinite dread,
Leave the spirit of beauty alone with her dead.
The waters that picture its ruinous dome!
Wildly, oh, wildly, most sorrowful wind,
Chant, like a prophet, of terror to come!
Like a Niobe stricken with infinite dread,
Leave the spirit of beauty alone with her dead.
Throne the pale Naiad that filleth her urn
At the fount of the sun; on the curtain of night,
Paint wild Auroras like visions that burn,
Rosy Auroras like dreams of delight!
Mantle the earth, fold the robe o'er her breast,
While the sky, like a seraph, bends over her rest!
At the fount of the sun; on the curtain of night,
Paint wild Auroras like visions that burn,
Rosy Auroras like dreams of delight!
Mantle the earth, fold the robe o'er her breast,
While the sky, like a seraph, bends over her rest!