But all through the glowing summer The blossomless tree throve fair, And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow, With sunny rain and air; And when the dim October With golden death was crowned, Under its heavy branches The tree stooped to the ground. In youth there comes a west-wind Blowing our bloom away,-- A chilly breath of Autumn Out of the lips of May. We bear the ripe fruit after,-- Ah, me! for the thought of pain!-- We know the sweetness and beauty And the heart-bloom never again. II. One sails away to sea, One stands on the shore and cries; The ship goes down the world, and the light On the sullen water dies. The whispering shell is mute, And after is evil cheer: She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain, Many and many a year. But the stately, wide-winged ship Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; Far under, dead in his coral bed, The lover lies asleep. III. Through the silent streets of the city, In the night's unbusy noon, Up and down in the pallor Of the languid summer moon, I wander, and think of the village, And the house in the maple-gloom, And the porch with the honeysuckles And the sweet-brier all abloom. My soul is sick with the fragrance Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: O darling! the house is empty, And lonesomer than death! If I call, no one will answer; If I knock, no one will come: The feet are at rest forever, And the lips are cold and dumb. The summer moon is shining So wan and large and still, And the weary dead are sleeping In the graveyard under the hill. IV. We looked at the wide, white circle Around the Autumn moon, And talked of the change of weather: It would rain, to-morrow, or soon. And the rain came on the morrow, And beat the dying leaves From the shuddering boughs of the maples Into the flooded eaves. The clouds wept out their sorrow; But in my heart the tears Are bitter for want of weeping, In all these Autumn years. V. The bobolink sings in the meadow, The wren in the cherry-tree: Come hither, thou little maiden, And sit upon my knee; And I will tell thee a story I read in a book of rhyme; I will but fain that it happened To me, one summer-time, When we walked through the meadow, And she and I were young. The story is old and weary With being said and sung. The story is old and weary: Ah, child! it is known to thee. Who was it that last night kissed thee Under the cherry-tree? VI. Like a bird of evil presage, To the lonely house on the shore Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, And shrieked at the bolted door, And flapped its wings in the gables, And shouted the well-known names, And buffeted the windows Afeard in their shuddering frames.