CLEAR had the day been from the dawn,
All chequer'd was the sky,
Thin clouds, like scarfs of cobweb lawn,
Veil'd heaven's most glorious eye.
The wind had no more strength than this,
That leisurely it blew,
To make one leaf the next to kiss,
That closely by it grew.
The flowers, like brave embroider'd girls,
Look'd as they most desired,
To see whose head with orient pearls
Most curiously was tyred.
The rills that on the pebbles play'd,
Might now be heard at will;
This world the only music made,
Else every thing was still.
And to itself the subtle air
Such sov'reignty assumes,
That it received too large a share
From Nature's rich perfumes.
The Gladness of Nature.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother, Nature, laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh on the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
THE Summer-flower has run to seed,
And yellow is the woodland bough;
And every leaf of bush and weed
Is tipt with Autumn's pencil now.
The woodbine-trees red berries bear,
That clustering hang upon the bower;
While, fondly lingering here and there,
Peeps out a dwindling, sickly flower.
The trees' gay leaves are turnéd brown,
By every little wind undress'd;
And as they flap and whistle down,
We see the bird's deserted nest.
No thrush or blackbird meets the eye,
Or fills the ear with summer's strair ;
They but dart out for worm and fly,
Then silent seek their rest again.
Beside the brook, in misty blue,
Bilberries glow on tendrils weak,
Where many a bare foot splashes through,
The pulpy, juicy prize to seek :
For 'tis the rustic boy's delight,
Now Autumn's sun so warmly gleams,
And these ripe berries tempt his sight,
To dabble in the shallow streams.
And oft his rambles we may trace,
Delved in the mud his printing feet,
And oft we meet a chubby face
All stained with the berries sweet.
'Tis lovely now to turn one's eye,
The changing face of heaven to mind;
How thin-spun clouds glide swiftly by,
While lurking storms slow move behind.
Now suns are clear, now clouds pervade,
Each moment.changed, and changed again;
And first a light, and then a shade,
Swift glooms and brightens o'er the plain.
Hark! started are some lonely strains:
The robin-bird is urged to sing;
Of chilly evening he complains,
And, dithering, droops his ruffled wing.
Slow o'er the wood the puddock sails;
And mournful, as the storms arise,
His feeble note of sorrow wails
To the unpitying, frowning skies.
More coldly blows the Autumn breeze;
Old Winter grins a blast between;
The north-winds rise and strip the trees,
And desolation shuts the scene.
THE lark is singing in the blinding sky,
Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy,
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space to see how fair she looks,
Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair-
All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love
Than this, the shrinking day, that sometimes comes
In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark peers
It seems a straggler from the files of June,
Which in its wanderings had lost its wits,
And half its beauty; and, when it return'd,
Finding its old companions gone away,
It join'd November's troop, then marching past;
And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world
With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in tears,
And all the while it holds within its hand
A few half-wither'd flowers. I love and pity it!
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eaves run
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft beneath thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
As on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barr'd clouds bloom the softly-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
THERE is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the cluster'd trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the Autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillar'd 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 crimson'd,
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.
An Autumn Ebening.
THE winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree,
So gently flows the parting breath
When good men cease to be.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,
And eyelids that are seal'd in death
Shall wake to close no more.
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