The birds that sing on autumn eves Among the golden-tinted leaves, Are but the few that true remain Of budding May's rejoicing train. Like autumn flowers that brave the frost, And make their show when hope is lost, These 'mong the fruits and mellow scent Mourn not the high-sunned summer spent. Their notes thro' all the jocund spring Were mixed in merry musicking: They sang for love the whole day long, But now their love is all for song. Now each hath perfected his lay To praise the year that hastes away: They sit on boughs apart, and vie In single songs and rich reply: And oft as in the copse I hear These anthems of the dying year, The passions, once her peace that stole, With flattering love my heart console. 22 When my love was away, Full three days were not sped, I caught my fancy astray Thinking if she were dead, And I alone, alone: It seemed in my misery In all the world was none Ever so lone as I. I wept; but it did not shame Nor comfort my heart: away I rode as I might, and came To my love at close of day. The sight of her stilled my fears, My fairest-hearted love: And yet in her eyes were tears: Which when I questioned of, O now thou art come, she cried, 'Tis fled: but I thought to-day I never could here abide, If thou wert longer away. 23 The storm is over, the land hushes to rest: The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone, Is fallen back in the west To couch with the sinking sun. The last clouds fare With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly In melting drifts of the sky. Already the birds in the air Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt, And one by one, Proclaiming aloud their care, Renew their peaceful chant. Torn and shattered the trees their branches again reset, They trim afresh the fair Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm, And awhile will be handsome yet. To-morrow's sun shall caress Their remnant of loveliness: In quiet days for a time Sad Autumn lingering warm Shall humour their faded prime. But ah! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground! What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June, That curtained the birds' cradles, and screened their song, That sheltered the cooing doves at noon, Of airy fans the delicate throng,-- Torn and scattered around: Far out afield they lie, In the watery furrows die, In grassy pools of the flood they sink and drown, Green-golden, orange, vermilion, golden and brown, The high year's flaunting crown Shattered and trampled down.