AUTUMN.
Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully,
Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast,
With wailing voice of saddest augury,
Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest.
With icy finger on each yellow leaf
Writes he the history of the dying year.
Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf—
Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer—
Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread:
While still, with semblance of the Summer brave,
Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed;
Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave:
As in Earth's Autumn—so, through weeping showers,
Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours.