_O, dreary_ fall the leaves,
The withered leaves;
Among the trees
Complains the breeze,
That still bereaves.
All silent lies the mere,
The silver mere,
In saddest wise
Reflecting skies
Forlorn and sere.
Would autumn had not claimed its own
And would the swallows had not flown.
Skies overcast!
Leaves falling fast!
And she has passed
And left the woodland strown,
The woodland strown,
The silver mere,
The dying year,
And me alone.
Skies overcast!
Leaves falling fast!
Does she that passed
Dream of the woodland strown,
The woodland strown,
The silver mere,
The dying year,
And me alone?
"Dark Boughs against a Golden Sky"
_Dark_ boughs against a golden sky,
And crying of the winter wind:
And sweet it is, for hope is high,
And sad it is, for we have sinned.
Perfect is nature's every part
In sunny rest, or windy strife:
But never yet the perfect heart,
And never yet the perfect life!
Dark boughs against a golden sky,
And crying of the winter wind:
And in the cold earth we must lie,
What matter then if we have sinned?
For evermore and evermore
Shall the great river onward roll:
And ever winding streams and poor
Shall lose them in the mighty whole.
"Wind of the Darkness"
_Wind_ of the darkness, breathing round us,
Wind from the never-resting sea,
Lo, you have loosed the cords that bound us,
Lo, you have set our spirits free:
Free to take wings, like the sea-bird lonely
Beating hardily up the wind:
Fixed are his eyes on the waters only,
Never a glance for the land behind.
Wind of the darkness, breathing round us,
Wind from the never-resting sea.
Was it the old gods' voice that found us
Here, where the bars of prison be?
From the far isle that neither knoweth
Change of season, nor time's increase,
Where is plenty, and no man soweth:
Calling to strife that shall end in peace.