Every hollow full of ferns,
Turning yellow in their turns;
Straggling brambles fierce and wild,
Yielding berries to the child;
Oakballs tumbling from the tree,
Beech-nuts dropping silently.
Hosts of leaves come down to die,
Leaving openings to the sky;
Bluebells, foxgloves, gone to seed,
Everything to death decreed;
Nothing left of flowers or buds:
Such is Autumn in the woods.
And so is there an Autumn known
To the heart. It feels alone,
Fearing its best days are past;
Sees the future overcast;
Fond acquaintance broken through,
Friends departed, friends untrue;
Human flowers cold and dead
Covered by a grassy bed;
Hopes, late blossoms putting out,
Withering soon, and flung about
By cruel winds; dread doubts and fears
Finding vent in sudden tears;
Yes, there is an Autumn known
To some hearts thus left, alone.
Yet, there's this thought after all--
Ferns may fade and leaves may fall,
Hearts may change or prove untrue,
All may look as these woods do--
Though sad Autumn here is given,
Spring-time awaits the just in heaven.