Poem by William Watson

Autumn

Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung,
  Thou retrospect in Time's reverted eyes,
  Thou metaphor of everything that dies,
That dies ill-starred, or dies beloved and young
    And therefore blest and wise,—
O be less beautiful, or be less brief,
  Thou tragic splendour, strange, and full of fear!
  In vain her pageant shall the Summer rear?
At thy mute signal, leaf by golden leaf,
    Crumbles the gorgeous year.

Ah, ghostly as remembered mirth, the tale
  Of Summer's bloom, the legend of the Spring!
  And thou, too, flutterest an impatient wing,
Thou presence yet more fugitive and frail,
    Thou most unbodied thing,
Whose very being is thy going hence,
  And passage and departure all thy theme;
  Whose life doth still a splendid dying seem,
And thou at height of thy magnificence
    A figment and a dream.

Stilled is the virgin rapture that was June,
  And cold is August's panting heart of fire;
  And in the storm-dismantled forest-choir
For thine own elegy thy winds attune
    Their wild and wizard lyre:
And poignant grows the charm of thy decay,
  The pathos of thy beauty, and the sting,
  Thou parable of greatness vanishing!
For me, thy woods of gold and skies of grey
    With speech fantastic ring.

For me, to dreams resigned, there come and go,
  'Twixt mountains draped and hooded night and morn,
  Elusive notes in wandering wafture borne,
From undiscoverable lips that blow
    An immaterial horn;
And spectral seem thy winter-boding trees,
  Thy ruinous bowers and drifted foliage wet—
  Past and Future in sad bridal met,
O voice of everything that perishes,
    And soul of all regret!

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Alice Bartlett Autumn ("The blaze of autumn scorches now the hill")

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