LATER POEMS. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. I. VER the bare woods, whose outstretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, I see, beyond the valley lands, The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morn atone. II. Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk, The hoar plume of the golden-rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild rose! III. With mingled sound of horns and bells, Two dusky lines converged in one, While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay IV. I passed this way a year ago: The wind blew south; the noon of day Was warm as June's; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away, And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play. V. Since then, the winter blasts have piled On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild, Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, And over these gray fields, then green and gold, The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled. VI. Rich gift of God! A year of time! And clover-bloom and sweet-brier smells, What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers, Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours! THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. VII. 1 know not how, in other lands, 271 And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale VIII. Yet, on life's current, he who drifts Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air, And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer! IX. The eye may well be glad, that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall; But he who sees his native brooks Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. The marble palaces of Ind Rise round him in the snow and wind, From his lone sweet-brier Persian Hafiz smiles, And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles. X. And thus it is my fancy blends The near at hand and far and rare Which flashed the light of morning skies |