Poems (Terry, 1861)/October
For works with similar titles, see October.
OCTOBER."Rest! rest! shall I not have all Eternity to rest in?"—Arnauld.
There comes a time of rest to thee,Whose laden boughs droop heavilyToward earth, thou golden-fruited tree!
A time when wind and tempest ceaseTo spoil and stain thy fair increase:After fruition deepest peace.
The tender bloom that decked thee, bride,The jewels of thy matron pride,And purple robes,—all laid aside.
The slow, red sunshine, o'er thee cast,In sweet, sad kisses for thy last,And shadow-haunted from the past.
Green, leafy, quiet, freed from care,No heavier weight thy lithe limbs bearThan dripping rain and sunny air.
But unto man's diviner senseThe strenuous rest of penitenceRemaineth only for defence.
His fruit drops slowly from his hands,But only with the dropping sandsThat fall on Time's slow-gathering strands.
The sower in this mortal fieldShall reap no harvest's gracious yield,The warrior conquers—on his shield.
But after life and fruit and rest,Thou, tree! by dust shalt be possessed;To him remains a day more blest,
A newer hope, a summer-timeRenewed forever in its prime,Where God, his harvest, sits sublime.