Page:Bridge of Fire.djvu/63

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XXX

The Young Poet

If there be any grief
For those lost eremites
That live in lonely tombs,
It is on Autumn nights,
At falling of the leaf;
It is when pale October,
Relentless tree-disrober,
Invades the silent homes.

But him no Autumn's chill
Shall have the power to harm:
Predominant, his lyre
Shall keep remembrance warm
And leave him lovely still:
And spirits softly winging
Shall listen to his singing,
And weep for his desire.


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