When the dead leaves adown the lane are hurried,
And all the dells are bare and bonfires smoke,
The bard (by rights) should be extremely worried,
He ought not to evolve a single joke,
But wander, woods among, a pale down-hearted bloke.
And I (of old) have felt the chestnuts patter
Like sounds of nails upon my coffin-lid;
My landlady, disturbed about the matter,
Asked if I liked my food; I said I did;
But told her where I ailed, and why Joy's face was hid.
"The flowers," I said, "are gone; once more Proserpina
Is rapt by Pluto to the iron gates;
Can even hard-boiled eggs prolong the chirp in a
Poetic bosom at such awful dates?"
And she said nothing, but removed the breakfast plates.
But now (I know not why) I feel quite jolly;
The ways are thick with mire, the woods are sere;
The rain is falling, I have lost my brolly,
Yet still my aptitude for song and cheer
Seems unaffected by the damp. It's deuced queer.
And when I wander by the leafless spinneys
I notice as a mere phenomenon
The way they've moulted; I would give two guineas
To feel the good old thrill, but ah, it's gone:
I neither weep nor tear my hair; I just move on.
I quite enjoy my meals (it seems like treason);
Far other was the case in days of yore,
When every mood of mine subserved the season--
Mirth for the flowery days, and mirth no more
When Summer ended and her garlands choked the floor.
You bid me take my fill of joy, dear reader,
And hang repining! but I dread my bliss;
If I can prove myself a hearty feeder,
Saying to tea-shop fairs, "Two crumpets, Miss,"
What time Demeter's daughter feels that icy kiss,
Shall I be some day cold to Nature's laughter?
Shall I no longer leap and shout and sing
And shake with vernal odes the echoing rafter,
When at the first warm flush of amorous Spring
The woodlands shine again? That _would_ be sickening.
E. G. V. KNOX.
Nov. 1, 1911.