Autumn.

As a harvester, at dusk,         Faring down some woody trail         Leading homeward through the musk         Of may-apple and pawpaw,         Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -         So comes Autumn, swart and hale,         Drooped of frame and slow of stride.         But withal an air of pride         Looming up in stature far         Higher than his shoulders are;         Weary both in arm and limb,         Yet the wholesome heart of him         Sheer at rest and satisfied.         Greet him as with glee of drums         And glad cymbals, as he comes!         Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.         He the Emperor - the King -         Royal lord of everything         Sagging Plenty's granary floors         And out-bulging all her doors;         He the god of corn and wine,         Honey, milk, and fruit and oil -         Lord of feast, as lord of toil -         Jocund host of yours and mine!         Ho! the revel of his laugh! -         Half is sound of winds, and half         Roar of ruddy blazes drawn         Up the throats of chimneys wide,         Circling which, from side to side,         Faces - lit as by the Dawn,         With her highest tintings on         Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin -         Smile at some old fairy-tale         Of enchanted lovers, in         Silken gown and coat of mail,         With a retinue of elves         Merry as their very selves,         Trooping ever, hand in hand,         Down the dales of Wonderland.         Then the glory of his song! -         Lifting up his dreamy eyes -         Singing haze across the skies;         Singing clouds that trail along         Towering tops of trees that seize         Tufts of them to stanch the breeze;         Singing slanted strands of rain         In between the sky and earth,         For the lyre to mate the mirth         And the might of his refrain:         Singing southward-flying birds         Down to us, and afterwards         Singing them to flight again;         Singing blushes to the cheeks         Of the leaves upon the trees -         Singing on and changing these         Into pallor, slowly wrought,         Till the little, moaning creeks         Bear them to their last farewell,         As Elaine, the lovable,         Was borne down to Lancelot. -         Singing drip of tears, and then         Drying them with smiles again.         Singing apple, peach and grape,         Into roundest, plumpest shape,         Rosy ripeness to the face         Of the pippin; and the grace         Of the dainty stamin-tip         To the huge bulk of the pear,         Pendant in the green caress         Of the leaves, and glowing through         With the tawny laziness         Of the gold that Ophir knew, -         Haply, too, within its rind         Such a cleft as bees may find,         Bungling on it half aware.         And wherein to see them sip         Fancy lifts an oozy lip,         And the singer's falter there.         Sweet as swallows swimming through         Eddyings of dusk and dew,         Singing happy scenes of home         Back to sight of eager eyes         That have longed for them to come,         Till their coming is surprise         Uttered only by the rush         Of quick tears and prayerful hush;         Singing on, in clearer key,         Hearty palms of you and me         Into grasps that tingle still         Rapturous, and ever will!         Singing twank and twang of strings -         Trill of flute and clarinet         In a melody that rings         Like the tunes we used to play,         And our dreams are playing yet!         Singing lovers, long astray,         Each to each, and, sweeter things -         Singing in their marriage-day,         And a banquet holding all         These delights for festival.