Poem by Alfred Bruce Douglas

Autumn Days

I have been through the woods to-day
And the leaves were falling,
Summer had crept away,
And the birds were not calling.
 
And the bracken was like yellow gold
That comes too late,
When the heart is sad and old,
And death at the gate.
 
Ah, mournful Autumn! Sad,
Slow death that comes at last,
I am mad for a yesterday, mad!
I am sick for a year that is past!
 
Though the sun be like blood in the sky
He is cold as the lips of hate,
And he fires the sere leaves as they lie
On their bed of earth, too late.
 
They are dead, and the bare trees weep
Not loud as a mortal weeping,
But as sorrow that sighs in sleep,
And as grief that is still in sleeping.

1. Perkin Warbeck
2. The Green River
3. The Ballad of Saint Vitus
4. Jonquil and Fleur-de-lys
5. Le Balcon

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