Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
Her singing-bird’s a boy, a boy.
In lovely Spring the birds were bent
On nests, on use, on love forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy’s content,
For his is liberty, his is youth.
The musical stripling sings for play
Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
This singing-bird’s a lad, a lad.
TO “A CERTAIN RICH MAN”
“I HAVE FIVE BRETHREN ... FATHER, I BESEECH THEE ... LEST THEY COME TO
THIS PLACE”
_St. Luke’s Gospel_
Thou wouldst not part thy spoil
Gained from the beggar’s want, the weakling’s toil,
Nor spare a jot of sumptuousness or state
For Lazarus at the gate.
And in the appalling night
Of expiation, as in day’s delight,
Thou heldst thy niggard hand; it would not share
One hour of thy despair.
Those five—thy prayer for them!
O generous! who, condemned, wouldst not condemn,
Whose ultimate human greatness proved thee so
A miser of thy woe.
“EVERLASTING FAREWELLS! AND AGAIN, AND YET AGAIN ... EVERLASTING
FAREWELLS!”
_De Quincey_
“Farewells!” O, what a word!
Denying this agony, denying the affrights,
Denying all De Quincey spoke or heard
In the infernal sadness of his nights.
How mend these strange “farewells”?
“Vale”? “Addio”? “Leb’wohl”? Not one but seems
A tranquil refutation; tolling bells
That yet withhold the terror of his dreams.