AUTUMN
by: Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
- SAW old
Autumn in the misty morn
- Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
- To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
- Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
- Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;--
- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
- With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
- Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
-
- Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun,
- Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
- Till shade and silence waken up as one,
- And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
- Where are the merry birds?--Away, away,
- On panting wings through the inclement skies,
- Lest owls should prey
- Undazzled at noonday,
- And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
-
- Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the West,
- Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
- When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
- Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
- To a most gloomy breast.
- Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,--
- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three
- On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
- Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree!
- Where is the Dryad's immortality?--
- Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
- Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
- In the smooth holly's green eternity.
-
- The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
- The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
- And honey bees have stored
- The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
- The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
- But here the autumn Melancholy dwells,
- And sighs her tearful spells
- Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
- Alone, alone,
- Upon a mossy stone,
- She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
- With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
- Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
- Like a dim picture of the drownèd past
- In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
- Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
- Into that distance, gray upon the gray.
-
- O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
- Under the languid downfall of her hair!
- She wears a coronal of flowers faded
- Upon her forehead, and a face of care;--
- There is enough of wither'd everywhere
- To make her bower,--and enough of gloom;
- There is enough of sadness to invite,
- If only for the rose that died, whose doom
- Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom
- Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
- There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
- Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,--
- Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
- Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
- To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
"Autumn" is reprinted
from The Oxford Book of English Verse: 12501900.
Ed. Arthur Quiller-Couch. Oxford: Clarendon, 1919. |
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POEMS BY THOMAS HOOD |
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