Autumn
I dwell alone—I dwell alone, alone,Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,Gilded with flashing boatsThat bring no friend to me:O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stoneAnd spices bear to sea:Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,Love-promising, entreating—10Ah! sweet, but fleeting—Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.Hush! the wind flags and fails—Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand—Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;Their songs wake singing echoes in my land—They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow fliesAcross the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,Poor bird, shall it be lost? 20Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,With no kind eyesTo watch it while it dies,Unguessed, uncared for, free:Set free at last,The short pang past,In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze; 30 Fair fall my fertile trees, That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider’s web blocks all mine avenue;He catches down and foolish painted fliesThat spider wary and wise.Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dewBetwixt boughs green with sap,So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:I will not mar the web,Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb. 40
It shakes—my trees shake—for a wind is rousedIn cavern where it housed:Each white and quivering sail,Of boats among the water leavesHollows and strains in the full-throated gale:Each maiden sings again—Each languid maiden, whom the calmHad lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balmMiles down my river to the seaThey float and wane, 50Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves,Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’Perhaps they say: ‘One hourMore, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’Perhaps they say: ‘One hourMore, and we stand,Face to face, hand in hand;Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’
My trees are not in flower, 60I have no bower,And gusty creaks my tower,And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.