684 The Coming of Winter. [DEC. 



The sight in that forsaken place and hour 



That touched me most with pity and strange woe, 



With tears of solemn pleasure was a shower 

 Of loosened leaves, that fluttered to and fro, 

 Quivering like little wings with motion slow, 



Or wafted far upon the homeless breeze, 

 Above the shrubless mount, and o'er the sunless seas. 



Oh ! could the Mind within a leaf be curled, 



What distant islands might mine eyes behold ! 

 How should my spirit search the various world, 



The holy haunts where Wisdom breathed of old, 



The graves of human glory, dim and cold ! 

 Or float far upward in the frostless air, 

 Returning home at last, to find its Eden there ! 



But those pale leaves that fell upon the ground, 

 When the wind slept, did most my thoughts engage ; 



They spake unto my sense with such a sound, 

 As breaks and trembles on the tongue of age. 

 Each as it dropped appeared some perished page, 



Inscribed with sad moralities, and words 

 That seemed the languaged notes of meadow-haunting birds. 



So fast from all the arching boughs they fell, 



Leaving that sylvan sanctuary bare 

 To the free wind, that musing through the dell 



I paced amidst them with a pitying care. 

 Beauties were buried in those leaves they were 

 The graves of spirits, children of the Spring 

 And each one seemed to me a sacred, thoughtful thing. 



Honour be theirs to whom an insect seems 



A thing made holy by the life it bears ! 

 Yet some have found, in forms unconscious, themes 



For thought refined ; that each mute atom shares 



The essence of humanity, its cares, 



Its beauty and its joys who feel regret 



To tread one daisy down, or crush the violet. 



Slight touches stir the heart's harmonious strings. 



This feeling came upon me as I crept 

 By the stript hedge a sympathy with things 



Whose absent spirit with the sunshine slept 



That fell, or floated on or as I stept 

 Complaining music made, as if the feet 

 Of Time alone should press existences so sweet. 



And then, among those dry and yellow leaves, 



I felt familiar feelings, known to all ; 

 That deep emotion when the warm heart heaves 



And wakens up beneath a wintry pall. 



My pleasures and my passions seemed to call 

 From out those withered leaves and then a voice 

 Came* with a livelier note, and taught me to rejoice. 



The promises of Youth they fly and fade ; 



Life's vision varies with the changing year ; 

 But the bright Mind receives no certain shade 



From dead delights : it rises calm and clear 



Amid its ringlets grey and garlands sere. 

 Oh ! let not Time be ever tracked by grief, 

 Nor Man's instinctive Hope fall like an autumn-leaf! B. 



