The Autumnal Equinox

                    Sorrow and Joy that interweave
                        The raven with the golden locks,
                    Fall brings to them who smile and grieve—
                        Their soul’s Autumnal Equinox.

  Tracking the pastures to the pebbled marge
     Of Ocean, though rank grasses brown and sere, 
  With chill winds—wearied of their chase at large
     Over the salt, wide-waving hemisphere—
     Moaning around me of the dying year,
          Themselves in long reeds dying,—
          In concert with their sighing
     I felt a low strain’s tremulous hum,
     Along the misty grandeut come
  Of that uncross’d and solemn voiced sea
  Whereone we drive, and it went over me,
  A wave of low-toned music, in spray-rain
Breaking, and rippling back into a sad refrain;
  And when the moan’d thought took the pen’s constraint,
  It pined away to this Autumnal plaint.

  O sad-sweet Autumn  0 more sad than sweet! 
     Swarthy Guerrilla nurst in Ruin's lair; 
     Insatiate spoiler of the loved and fair —
          The all too fleet;
  Grim prophet, still with fixed and rigid finger 
     Pointing to that inexorable tread,
          Whose sullen beat —
  Measured and firm with fate that will not linger—
     Summons the living to the dead;
  O why, red Autumn, with such eager joy
          Wilt thou destroy
  The blended beauties of the golden year, 
Rounding with grief our joy-curved planisphere ?

       With heavy heart and humid eye, 
       I mark the pallid glories die, — 
       The fading of the woven hues 
       That ran through summer's busy loom; 
The fainting of the unseen flowers of song,
          That all the glad months long 
  Were uttered beauty and melodious bloom, 
  Whose fragrance came in music. If I choose
  I cannot stint my sadness, when I muse
     How these are slain by thy keen breath, 
               O pander of the Tomb, 
               O parasite of Death!

     The winds moan in the fields, and make 
  The firstlings of Decay sing auto-dirges,
     And premonitions which green life may take, 
  Sighingly as the seared; moan, too, the surges, 
  Along thick-weeded rocks, while salt-cold tears 
     Silverly trickle down the Sea-King's beard, 
     A tinkle in the moaning, faintly heard, 
Sad as the clash of gems round Wealth's or Beauty's bier;
     The very hearth-fire moans and sobs, as though 
     Its fluttering pulses quivered with our wo, 
     That made its rosy lips grief-garrulous, 
     So sadly well they are attuned with us.

  The sun walks up the leaden sky, and down, 
          In a pale amber ring
               Storm-heralding, 
        Nor can his fires avail to fling 
  The portent from him, that hath cast its frown 
  Over their burning, with his flight to roll
        And round 'him still to cling, 
Like some foreshadowed doom around a Prophet's soul.

     I moan, too, in these meanings,
       I answer in like wise 
     The hollowest intonings
          Of their most hollow sighs.
     My spirit in the shadow trips, 
Stumbling on doubts, and into darkness slips
           I moan, but not because I see 
          Dear Summer waning patiently 
               To a most sad eclipse 
               Of all she hath most fair, 
       While low sighs part her pallid lips, 
               And lift her fading hair; 
               Not that the keen-edged air 
  Shaves to the level of the foot of Death 
  The heights of Beauty, with its cutting breath:
     Though these were sad enough to start 
  The sobbing Grief, — young nursling of my heart, — 
  From the short sleep of her self-wearying:
          But for the deeper sting 
  Of their predictive menace, like a dart 
Shot from the random bow of the dread Archer,
                    And falling short 
By one suspended plunge of his swift ashen charger :
               But for the quickened stirring 
          Of allayed pangs, and tears for human loss ;
               For the too fast recurring 
          Of doubts foregone and sorrows trailed across 
          The soul's Serene, like clouds across the sun, 
               Which, if not deep as very night, 
               Still by that ring of half-quenched light 
          Portend a stormier darkness glooming on.

  Thrice ere the round moon's ebbing light waned thrice
       To its decay, the tramp of the White Horse 
  Hath trod out jewels from my crown of love: 
  Thrice the pale Rider, stooping, from above,
               His brows, that mock remorse, 
  Hath torn my loved ones off with hand of ice ;
               I mourn to lose from earth and me 
  The fearless-faithful and the humbly good. — 
  To be toss'd forward on the bounding sea 
                    Three billows more 
                    From sight of shore, 
  Towards the long waste of utter solitude.

  Thrice to her grave beyond the western line 
     Of utmost day. the dying moon had gone, 
     Thrice rose again into her silver dawn,
  And smiled by turns on graves that cover Mine,
  Even at my feet unyielding. So divine 
       Her silent strength is, lightly as a fawn 
       She leaps the pits where lurking ruins yawn ;
  And walks enwreathéd in her virgin shine.
  So cloud-like heavy are our lives, we sink
       Darkened and darkening to the sheer Unknown,
  Now rain down sorrows from the looming brink 
       For other's fate, then follow to our own;
       And scarce one Spirit from these fogs of Sense 
       Can flash out a pure gleam on its own Where or Whence !

               Thus while the Autumn's breath,
               Surcharged with frosty death,
     Ruffled Atlantic's bosom to a moan.
               Deeper and deeper still,
               With more prevailing chill,

     The sighing plaint o'erswept, and heaved my own; 
     It marr'd the mirror, but quenched not the sun; 
     High over all the orb of Faith went on,
     And now I bless the showering down of grief, 
     For but in rain dark skies find blue relief.

     Anon the waters sang a blither tune, 
     Leaped on the beach, and with low rustling laugh'd; 
  The sun, gone up into his Hall of Noon, 
  Kiss'd the dun clouds into a rosy swoon —
     Light-drunk and blushing with the wine they quaffed: 
  Sang the long reeds love-softly, in a lull 
     Of the faint breeze pluck'd of its frosty tooth; 
     And the red kindling forest looked, in sooth, 
  More dreamily calm and queen-like beautiful,
                    Than in its prime of youth. 
               Forth from its iron cell 
               The fire laughed long and well;
  With gleeful crackling, full of merry hints
               Of Mirth and social cheer
               To crown the garnered year.
               What time Joy scarcely dints,
               With rapidest footprints, 
  The virgin snow and twinkling atmosphere.
               The heart put off its heavy guise
  Of sorrow slowly, and, grown Autumn-wise, 
  Felt change its murmur to a song of Faith. 
  And calm-eyed triumph over frost and death.

  Shame be, it said, that any heart should keep
  The felon grief within its sanctuary,
  To love and life, to God, and to the very
Heart feeding it, a traitor stained and deep.
More shame that a grown soul supinely lingers 
  With backward looking to the doubts that haunted 
  Dawn's twilight, while, around him and undaunted,
  The Powers of Nature, like love-covenanted
Pure Angels pointing God ward with white fingers,
All tell of Life, themselves but strong Life-bringers. 
  Autumn is not decay, but mellowing 
  Of the crude germs that glorify the Spring
     In its new dawn; it is not death, 
  But life's fruition. Nothing perisheth,

     But in its husk and shroud, against the waste 
  Of storm and winter, guards the immortal spark; 
     Round the full year is Life by new Life chased, 
     Nor throbs more glad, in Summer's arms embraced 
  Than when her own ice-woven zone 
               Is round her, cold and stark.

               To spirits who have sown
Their seed in spring-time, and in summer done 
     Their summer-task, the Autumn is not sad. 
     They know from whence all Winter-joys are had,
And winter hopes; they know, and they alone,
     Let flowers go down to wilt on Flora's tomb, 
     They have fruits now; and every fruitless bloom
Whose dower is sweetness, they have harvested,
And it lives in them by sweet thoughts it shed,
Like refined odor, though its leaves are dead.
If death strike down the loved, they do not say 
     "The chain is snap'd!" but "We are drawn 
     By one link more anear the heights, where dawn
The fore-sent glories of the eternal Day."

     Under the loosening clasp of leaves,
          That tremble like a flickering flame, 
The little Buds bind fast, in cone-like sheaves, 
               The life, whose loss the mourner grieves, 
     Yet in new springs to greet with new acclaim:
          And the wise gather strength from these 
          To wrestle with the doubts that come 
          Like clouds, whose tempest-pinions hum 
In gales of the heart's Autumn. When he sees 
That nothing ends, but all prepares to be,
          That Nature makes the flower and tree 
     Immortal, he believes from thence 
     That a more lofty Excellence 
Shall reap a higher Immortality.

Then was I glad when I remembered this, 
That even the outward charm of common things 
Is born of Beauty who is conquerless ; — 
Who from her fall with ample vigor springs 
To claim anew her kindred and her crown; 
Then the full heart saw all its grief struck down;
No room was left for breathings of distress, 
For winds, to sigh, must traverse emptiness. 
          In lighter mood I measured back 
          Along the fields my morning track. 
Full many flowers, that overcame the wrath 
Of stormy winds, hung nodding round my path, 
Where alder-banks with ruby jewels crown'd,
          Stretching their green arms round, 
Fenced narrow patches into warm enclosures, 
And on the low rim of the pool of osiers
When he sees 
That nothing ends, but all prepares to be,
          That Nature makes the flower and tree 
     Immortal, he believes from thence 
     That a more lofty Excellence 
Shall reap a higher Immortality.
     They peeped and glittered to the noon's grave smile — 
     Brave bands in Beauty's shattered rank and file— 
And glad brown-breasted birds sang momently the while.

     She seemeth now the soul of every scene,
          Dear Beauty, fearless and the same forever 
     That she hath been, high and serene,
               And faithless to her children never, 
     Whether old Winter shakes his hoary beard 
     In wrath at her blithe coming, or the weird 
     June winds kiss out the love -faint dews that quiver 
     With overfulness of delight, insphered 
          By the flush'd arms of Roses, — 
                    Still like a Queen 
                    With dauntless mien, 
               She champions the soul's best faith. 
When, round her reign, the strength of Autumn closes
               With blight and death, 
          And the wild rout of grief and doubt 
     Assails the soul that on her life reposes, 
               For many a sweetness lost 
               She wrings from wind and frost 
     A glorious victory; and such boot they render 
          Into her cunning hands, the fading year 
          Glides down the slant path of its grave anear. 
             In more than primal splendor.

  If so transcendant gleamings flash 
From one brief jarring of the gate of death, 
          Then, the cheered spirit saith, 
          Let its rough hinges crash 
     What time they will to welcome me 
Into its glorious realm of holy mystery!

When the scared flocks of tender flowers grow pale, 
As the wolf-winds come howling through the vale; 
And o'er her pure consuming cheeks droop down 
The fairest buds of Flora's jewelled crown, 
From which her vain tears wash their hues, to stain 
That cheek in mockery of its own, again, 
Unconquered Beauty cheers the stricken Queen 
With purple stars that from the hedges lean, 
In varied constellations; and, between, 
With pomp of gold to shame the wrinkled sod, 
Fuller than Aaron's blooms a slender rod: 
Even Spring's young darling dares the growing cold — 
Brave Dandelion with his shield of gold, — 
Come back like things of childhood to the old, 
When all beside is slipping from their hold; — 
And humble flowers that wait unknown till fame 
Rewards the worthy with a song and name, 
By trampled way-sides tempt the avenging blast: 
To Beauty's banner faithful to the last.
When her deep blush at Autumn's traitor kiss 
     Fades to white death, and dies the poor betrayer, 
     Scorned of the tyrant whom he served to slay her,
Slowly she sinks, in utter silentness,
               To her life-guarding tomb, 
          Wept o'er by every withered bloom, 
Whose feathered seedlings ride upon the gale, 
Full of unconscious nerve to re-assail 
Their haughty captor, and to plant once more 
Her rescued banner where it waved before.