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His scourge of fury is lashing down
There shews no care in heaven to save
Whose trust hath toiled and died.
So my proud spirit in me is sad,
THE birds that sing on autumn eves
Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,
And oft as in the copse I hear
These anthems of the dying year,
The passions, once her peace that stole,
WHEN my love was away,
And I alone, alone:
It seemed in my misery
I wept; but it did not shame
The sight of her stilled my fears,
And yet in her eyes were tears:
O now thou art come, she cried,
I never could here abide,
If thou wert longer away.
THE storm is over, the land hushes to rest:
The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone,
Is fallen back in the west
To couch with the sinking sun.
The last clouds fare
With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly
In melting drifts of the sky.
Already the birds in the air
Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt,
And one by one,
Proclaiming aloud their care,
Renew their peaceful chant.
Torn and shattered the trees their branches again reset, They trim afresh the fair
Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm, And awhile will be handsome yet.
To-morrow's sun shall caress
Their remnant of loveliness:
In quiet days for a time
Sad Autumn lingering warm
But ah! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground! What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June,
That curtained the birds' cradles, and screened their song, That sheltered the cooing doves at noon,
Of airy fans the delicate throng,
Torn and scattered around:
Far out afield they lie,
In the watery furrows die,
In grassy pools of the flood they sink and drown,
Shattered and trampled down.
The day is done: the tired land looks for night:
In peace her nerves of delight:
While silver mist upstealeth silently,
And the broad cloud-driving moon in the clear sky
And in her tranquil light
Sleep falls on forest and field.
Sée! sléep hath fallen: the trees are asleep :
YE thrilled me once, ye mournful strains, Ye anthems of plaintive woe,
My spirit was sad when I was young;
Ah sorrowful long-ago!
But since I have found the beauty of joy
And yet if voices of fancy's choir
Your old lament, 'tis dear to me still,
SAY who is this with silvered hair,
That useth not our garb nor tongue
No toil he maketh his by day,
Since he is come there's nothing wise
Have looked on it and smiled.
Whence came he hither all alone
And I would dig his grave full deep
CROWN Winter with green,
His mouth to the bowl,
So merry he be,
I bid him abide: