Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Birthday of Autumn
BIRTHDAY OF AUTUMN.
Early awake this morn! my spirit shook
Drowsiness from its plumes before the birds;
And up beside my window with a book,
I strive to find a magic in the words.
But thought claims precedence; and with my eye
Playing to lore the truant, I look on
Village and field, and river, wood and sky
Just bright'ning with the first September sun.
Autumn has come again, the autumn-time
Ever so glorious in our lovely land;
And where is there a lovelier? What clime
Yields such a wealth of blessings to your hand?
But what I love in the autumnal days
Is their delicious dreaminess, that fills
The spirit with a mellow, golden haze
Like that throughout the atmosphere; one thrills,
If a leaf flutter on the wayside trees,
Or insect sudden wind its tiny horn,
Or if springs up anon the fitful breeze,
Scattering the leaves its idle force had torn.
There is a conscious bliss in every thing;
The very shadows deeper, cooler seem,
Making us wish that we aside could fling
Life's waking cares, and lay us down and dream.
The sun's rays grown less vertical, have now
The soft gold that the painters imitate;
And tones come whispered from each waving bough,
Sweeter than all that genius can create:
The low, wild, shivering music of the leaves,
That move like ripples on a silver sea,
Sinking and swelling ever, as it heaves
Soft wavering sighs of pensive melody.
When, too, the yellow-garbed October comes,
With breezy days, and grand, wild, moonlight nights;
When louder every busy insect hums
The requiem of its day so short and bright;
And when men love the sunshine, not the shade,
Sitting at noon beneath the leafless vine,
That in the summer dewy coolness made,
And bore the flowers that Beauty loved to twine.
Even the chill November throws sometimes
Aside her cloudy mantle, and looks out
With a warm azure sky, tempting the chimes
Of lingering birds and childhood's merry shout.
But must we close the window; we can lie
Snug in our easy chairs, and read or dream,
Musing how oft the seasons hurry by,
Leaving us ever farther down life's stream.
O if the autumn of our life came on
Prepared for winter like the fading year,
With plenty stored, and summer labor done,
There would be little in old age to fear.
Youth's feverish pulses would have grown more cold,
Its dark locks braided with some threads of gray;
But the wise heart, like wine that has grown old,
Gains without losing by the long delay.