Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.. AUTUMN WOODS. Keats. RE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The mountains that enfold In their wide sweep the colour'd landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow- My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet; Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright, Their sunny-colour'd foliage in the breeze Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun. Beneath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark within its roseate canopy Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn, why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, Ah! 't were a lot too bless'd For ever in thy colour'd shades to stray; And leave the vain, low strife That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. OCTOBER. Bryant. THE year is now declining; and the air, Blessing the realms whose glory comes from him. With plaintive throat, her dull and tremulous cry! And left the lap of Nature shorn and bare; The odorous clover flowers have disappear'd; The yellow pendulous grain is seen no more, The garden fruits have mellow'd with the year, Nor trace nor token of the summer's wealth! The robin sits Upon the mossy gateway, singing clear A requiem to the glory of the woods. And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent shower Of wither'd leaves bestrews the weedy paths, Or from the branches of the willow whirl, With rustling sound, upon the turbid stream. Anon. AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE. AR and wide Nature is smiling in her loveliness. The scene has colour'd; not with those broad hues Mix'd in his later pallet by the frost, And dash'd upon the picture till the eye Aches with varied splendour, but in tints Left by light, scatter'd touches. Overhead |