AUTUMN. 9 



conscious, as " years bring the inevitable yoke," of such 

 a sadness as Wordsworth has described, in that Ode which 

 rejecting, of course, as anything but a poetic dream, 

 the theory on which he founds it is one of the most 

 nobly beautiful poems in our language : 



" There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 

 The earth, and every common sight, 



To me did seem 

 Apparell'd in celestial light, 

 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 

 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 



By night or day, 

 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



" The rainbow comes and goes ; 

 And lovely is the rose ; 

 The moon doth with delight 

 Look round her when the heavens are bare j 

 Waters on a starry night 

 Are beautiful and fair ; 

 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 

 But yet I know, where'er I go, 

 That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth." 



The summer, with all its gorgeous opulence of life, 

 possesses charms of its own ; nor is autumn destitute of an 

 idiosyncrasy which takes strong hold of our sympathies. 

 We cannot, indeed, divest ourselves of a certain feeling 

 of sadness, because we know that the season is in the 

 decrepitude of age, and is verging towards death. In 

 spring, hope is prominent ; in autumn, regret : in spring 

 we are anticipating life ; in autumn, death. 



