Poems (Toke)/Autumn

by Emma Toke

For works with similar titles, see Autumn.

AUTUMN.

HE Autumn leaves are falling fast,
 And strew my onward way;
All wears the hue of beauty past,
 Now mellowing to decay.
And yet wan leaf and fading flower
Can touch the heart with deeper power
 Than Summer's bright array;
For who but feels that beauty's spell
Is deepest when she breathes farewell?

And now, when tints like evening steal
 O'er all the earth and sky,
When Nature seems with grief to feel
 Her dying hour is nigh,
'Tis sweet, though mournful, thus to gaze
Upon the wreck of other days,
 And watch their glories die,
While still the sun's departing beam
Falls soft on mountain, wood, and stream.

An Autumn sunset,—all most bright
 And peaceful mingles there;
The golden sky, the mellowed light,
 The calm and stirless air;
With yet that melancholy smile,
Which oft so sadly gilds awhile
 The "twilight of the year;"
As if still Summer, lingering, shone
O'er scenes from which her warmth was gone.

And yet at this delicious hour
 How lovely is the scene!
Yon woods that o'er the waters tower,
 Alas! no longer green!
Yet still in mournful beauty rise,
All radiant with the thousand dyes
 Which veil where death has been,
And bright in mimic lustre glow,
Upon the clear long lake below.

Light from on high is bursting now,
 O'er mountain, wood, and plain;
Light streams on Autumn's fading brow,
 And gilds her smiles again.
Alike earth, sky, and waters seem
To sleep entranced in that bright beam,
 Without one cloud or stain,
And bask beneath the sunny ray,
Too soon, alas! to fade away.

But ah! that beam gives not the mirth
 A Summer sunshine gave;
There is a stillness on the earth,
 A hush upon the wave,
A voiceless calm, which seems to say,
The hour is come, that farewell ray
 But gilds an opening grave.
As if yon sun still strove to cheer,
With sorrowing beam, the dying year.

Yes, Nature, thy dark hour is nigh,—
 Death's hues are on thy brow;
But oh, how still and peacefully
 Dost thou in silence bow!
Oh! would that all, when life ebbs fast,
And evening comes, might sink at last
 As calm and bright as thou,
Cheered by that light from Heaven which glows
Like thine—the brightest at the close.

E.

Glasslough, October 22, 1836.