Autumn

With what a glory comes and goes the year!     The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers     Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy     Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;     And when the silver habit of the clouds     Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with     A sober gladness the old year takes up     His bright inheritance of golden fruits,     A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.         There is a beautiful spirit breathing now     Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,     And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,     Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,     And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.     Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,     Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales     The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,     Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life     Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,     And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,     Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down     By the wayside a-weary.    Through the trees     The golden robin moves.    The purple finch,     That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,     A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,     And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud     From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,     And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,     Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.         O what a glory doth this world put on     For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth     Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks     On duties well performed, and days well spent!     For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,     Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.     He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death     Has lifted up for all, that he shall go     To his long resting-place without a tear.