November 1, 2010

• Autumn Song

       

  Autumn clouds are flying, flying,
  O’er the waste of blue.
  Summer flowers are dying, dying,
  Late so lovely new.
  Laboring trains are slowly rolling
  Home with winter grain;
  Holy bells are slowly toiling
  Over buried men.

  

  Goldener lights set noon asleeping
  Like an afternoon;
  Colder airs come stealing, creeping
  After sun and moon;
  And the leaves all tired of blowing,
  Cloud-like o’er the sun,
  Change to sunset colors, knowing
  That their day is done.

  

  Autumn’s sun is sinking, sinking
  Into winter’s night;
  And our hearts are thinking, thinking
  Of the cold and blight.
  Our life’s sun is slowly going.
  Down the hill of night;
  Will our clouds shine golden-glowing
  On the slope of night.

  

  But the vanished corn is lying
  In rich golden glooms.
  In the churchyard all the sighing
  Is above the tombs.
  Spring will come, slow-lingering
  Opening buds of faith.
  Man goes forth to meet his spring
  Through the door of death.

    

  So we love with no less loving,
  Hair that turns to gray ;
  Or a step less lightly moving,
  In life’s autumn day.
  And if thought, still-brooding, lingers
  O’er each bygone thing,
  ‘Tis because old autumn’s fingers
  Paint in hues of spring.

  ~  Autumn Song by George MacDonald

  in Cheerful Words

  : : from the archives, first published October 24, 2009

  • 10:12 am
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