Tuesday 11 October 2011

Autumn Song by George MacDonald


Autumn clouds are flying, flying
 O'er the waste of blue;
 Summer flowers are dying, dying,
 Late so lovely new.
 Labouring wains are slowly rolling
 Home with winter grain;
 Holy bells are slowly tolling
 Over buried men.

 Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
 Like an afternoon;
 Colder airs come stealing, creeping
 From the misty moon;
 And the leaves, of old age dying,
 Earthy hues put on;
 Out on every lone wind sighing
 That their day is gone.

 Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
 Down to winter low;
 And our hearts are thinking, thinking
 Of the sleet and snow;

 For our sun is slowly sliding
 Down the hill of might;
 And no moon is softly gliding
 Up the slope of night.

 See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
 Heaped in golden glooms!
 See, the earth's outworn sunrises
 Dream in cloudy tombs!
 Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
 Of a quickening wind;
 And the man, through Death's door going,
 Leaves old Death behind.

 Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
 Let the gold turn gray;
 Feet, though feeble, still may falter
 Toward the better day!
 Brother, let not weak faith linger
 O'er a withered thing;
 Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
 Burns to hues of Spring.



http://www.poemhunter.com/george-macdonald/