John William Inchbold

(1830-1888 / England)

Love’s Autumn Buds


Although the yellow leaves are on the tree,
And summer's ruins thickly strew the ground,
And no bright flowers are in the sea-girt lea,
And birds have almost ceased their music's round:
Though all along the land, across the sea,
And o'er the sky, the stealthy grey mists creep,
Though many months have sever'd thee from me,
Yet still is memory too bright to weep,
For near the autumn leaves buds long to bloom,
And summer comes again with lengthening days,
And Hope on earth has never built a tomb,
But shines with brightness yet of gentle rays:
So Love itself can never pass away,
But has clear dawn or cloudy every day.

Submitted: Wednesday, October 13, 2010

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