Autumn
Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.
The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.
Read Poem The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.
The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.
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Telling Fortunes
‘Be not among wine-bibbers; among riotous eaters of
flesh; for the drunkard and the glutton shall come to
poverty; and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.’
Proverbs, 23: 20, 21
I’ll tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad,
For you to accept or refuse.
The one of them good, and the other one bad;
Now hear them, and say which you choose!
Read Poem flesh; for the drunkard and the glutton shall come to
poverty; and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.’
Proverbs, 23: 20, 21
I’ll tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad,
For you to accept or refuse.
The one of them good, and the other one bad;
Now hear them, and say which you choose!
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To Solitude
I am weary of the working,
Weary of the long day’s heat;
To thy comfortable bosom,
Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet?
Weary of the long, blind struggle
For a pathway bright and high,—
Weary of the dimly dying
Hopes that never quite all die.
Weary searching a bad cipher
For a good that must be meant;
Discontent with being weary,—
Weary with my discontent.
Read Poem Weary of the long day’s heat;
To thy comfortable bosom,
Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet?
Weary of the long, blind struggle
For a pathway bright and high,—
Weary of the dimly dying
Hopes that never quite all die.
Weary searching a bad cipher
For a good that must be meant;
Discontent with being weary,—
Weary with my discontent.
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The Window Just Over the Street
I sit in my sorrow a-weary, alone;
I have nothing sweet to hope or remember,
For the spring o’ th’ year and of life has flown;
’Tis the wildest night o’ the wild December,
And dark in my spirit and dark in my chamber.
I sit and list to the steps in the street,
Going and coming, and coming and going,
And the winds at my shutter they blow and beat;
’Tis the middle of night and the clouds are snowing;
And the winds are bitterly beating and blowing.
I list to the steps as they come and go,
And list to the winds that are beating and blowing,
And my heart sinks down so low, so low;
Read Poem I have nothing sweet to hope or remember,
For the spring o’ th’ year and of life has flown;
’Tis the wildest night o’ the wild December,
And dark in my spirit and dark in my chamber.
I sit and list to the steps in the street,
Going and coming, and coming and going,
And the winds at my shutter they blow and beat;
’Tis the middle of night and the clouds are snowing;
And the winds are bitterly beating and blowing.
I list to the steps as they come and go,
And list to the winds that are beating and blowing,
And my heart sinks down so low, so low;
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The West Country
Have you been in our wild west country? then
You have often had to pass
Its cabins lying like birds’ nests in
The wild green prairie grass.
Have you seen the women forget their wheels
As they sat at the door to spin—
Have you seen the darning fall away
Read Poem You have often had to pass
Its cabins lying like birds’ nests in
The wild green prairie grass.
Have you seen the women forget their wheels
As they sat at the door to spin—
Have you seen the darning fall away
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