Classic Poem

The summer flies,
And autumn slowly comes, his withering breath
Crisping whate'er he breathes on; and the woods
He sets ablaze with gorgeous hues which burn,
With noiseless flame, until the foliage falls,
Strewing the ground like embers, while the limbs
Spread to the sky their empty ashen arms.
At her lone window, drawn from household cares
Olivia sits, and to her lover writes;
And thus the ardour of her fancy flows.
" The months go by, the seasons slow depart,
With steps reluctant, looking to the time
When thou wert here — how different their flight!
I think one half the sunshine went with thee.
And, like my thoughts, the better half. And new.
The dreary autumn comes, the sighing days,
With which my heart seems strangely set in tune
Here, where I gaze, I see the stubbled fields,
The reddening forest, and the misty air —
All sights and sounds which make the soul alone.
Day after day, the flying flocks go south,
In living lines, which write along the sky
The prophecy of winter's sure approach;
I hear at night their voices o'er the roof.
Mingled with whirring wings. On yonder plain
The rustling maize, in many a bowing shock,
Whispers to every passing breeze. Last night,
Beneath the white moon, in the silent air,
In jovial bands the huskers, flocking, came,
And stripped the covers from the yellow ears,
And left them glowing there in golden mounds.
Oh, how the song, and jest, and laugh, went round!
And when the crimson ear was found, the prize
Was held in blazing splendour, like a torch,
And all proclaimed a " sweetheart," and rejoiced.
I stood apart, and, as in days a-gone,
Hearkened to hear thy voice among the rest;
But there were none so happy or so clear,
Or, as I fancied, half so musical.
Within doors, through the busy afternoon,
Till late at eve, the neighbouring dames and maids
Found social pleasure round the spreading quilt,
With rapid hands, till on the oft-rolled frame
The latest puffy diamond-row was stitched.
Then, when the gay and separate tasks were done,
And noisy supper past, the room was cleared;
When mirth, and music, and the mazy dance
Reeled through the night till every rafter groaned,
While swayed the floor beneath their gliding feet.
I could not dance, and could not join the glee;
Each smile I forced was half akin to tears;
So clearly came the old times o'er my mind
To-day the orchard yields its glowing fruits,
Which tumble, widely, with a thunderous sound,
Shaken from stormy boughs — a monster hail.
And there the creaking cider-press is fed,
And oozes the sweet liquid through the straw,
Where gather the inebriate bees and wasps;
And childhood imitates the winged thieves
With wheaten pipes which yield the nectar draught
The sweetened air across the casement floats,
And merriment invites abroad. Ah, me!
How pining Memory flies into the past,
And lives in the departed scene — so foud,
She cannot taste the pleasure of to-day!
Then were we children, and in hours like this
None were more happy. It is now the time
When slumber seems to hover on the air.
O'er all the veil of Indian summer floats.
Blue, thin, and silent, lovely as a dream —
A dream which, presently, the North shall wake,
The shrewish North, with shrilly tongue of storm.
The sounding flails, and Bowman's beating loom,
Pulse through the brooding air. From out yon barn
Floats the loud tempest of the sweeping fan;
While, on the stormy gust its wings create,
Beyond the door the winnowed chaff is blown
Swarming like golden bees. E'en where I sit,
I can behold the great wheel of the mill
Flashing its silvery circles in the sun,
And yet so distant cannot hear its song.
All happiest sights and sounds seem held afar.
In the dear light of memory thou dost stand;
I see thee smile yet cannot hear thy voice.
It is the season when the woodland trees,
Through yellow fingers, shed the plenteous nuts;
When happy children, from the school released,
Wander from grove to grove. Canst thou not yet
Bring back to fancy those departed days
When we, together, with our baskets went,
Shelling the walnuts till our little hands
Were like the Autumn's brown? or chestnuts found
Dropped from their starry burrs? or with the squirrels
Beneath the hickory, shared the shellbark's store?
How then we spread them in the loft to dry,
Between the rolls of wool for winter wheels —
The loft made odorous by the bundled herbs?
Ah, yes, thou needs must often see it all,
And, seeing, sigh for the delightful hours.
Oft have I prayed for thy return — how oft! —
But chiefly now, for these are changeful times.
Loud Rumour's voice entices to the West —
The call from out the backwoods daily comes —
The only topic when the neighbours meet;
And the excitement like a fever spreads,
Contagious, till one cannot safely say
Who, ere another summer, may depart
To be immured in the far forest's gloom.
The drover, with his cattle passing by,
Tells marvellous stories of that plenteous land.
Inflaming all he meets. And frequently
A letter from its three weeks journey rests,
Breathing of woods primeval, and confirms
The floating tale, advising all to come.
Even round our fireside spreads the exciting theme.
Wert thou but here, to join in the exploit,
The wilderness were welcome as the town. "
And more she writes; but let the veil be drawn
Between the world and her more tender thoughts