Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
Her singing-bird's a boy, a boy.
In lovely Spring the birds were bent
On nests, on use, on love, forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy's content,
For his is liberty, his is youth.
The musical stripling sings for play
Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
This singing-bird's a lad, a lad.
TO "A CERTAIN RICH MAN"
"I HAVE FIVE BRETHREN.... FATHER, I BESEECH
THEE ... LEST THEY COME TO THIS PLACE"
St. Luke's Gospel
Thou wouldst not part thy spoil
Gained from the beggar's want, the weakling's toil,
Nor spare a jot of sumptuousness or state
For Lazarus at the gate.
And in the appalling night
Of expiation, as in day's delight,
Thou heldst thy niggard hand; it would not share
One hour of thy despair.
Those five—thy prayer for them!
O generous! who, condemned, wouldst not condemn,
Whose ultimate human greatness proved thee so
A miser of thy woe.
EVERLASTING FAREWELLS
"EVERLASTING FAREWELLS! AND AGAIN, AND
YET AGAIN ... EVERLASTING FAREWELLS!"
De Quincey