THE GOLDEN FLOWER 143 



" The Spirits of the Air live on the smells 

 Of fruit ; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round 

 The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." 

 Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat ; 

 Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak 

 Hills fled from our sight ; but left his golden load. 



WILLIAM BLAKE. 



THE GOLDEN FLOWER 



WHEN Advent dawns with lessening days, 



While earth awaits the angel's hymn ; 

 When bare as branching coral sways 



In whistling winds each leafless limb ; 

 When spring is but a spendthrift's dream, 



And summer's wealth a wasted dower, 

 Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem, 



Then autumn coins his Golden Flower. 



Soft was the violet's vernal hue, 



Fresh was the rose's morning red, 

 Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew, 



All gone ! their short-lived splendour shed. 

 The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon ; 



The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb ; 

 The frost-flowers greet the icy moon, 



Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum. 



The stiffening turf is white with snow, 

 Yet still its radiant disks are seen 



Where soon the hallowed morn will show 

 The wreath and cross of Christmas green ; 



