George Arnold
George Arnold Poems
SUMMER is fading; the broad leaves that grew
So freshly green, when June was young, are falling;
And, all the whisper-haunted forest through,
...
Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone:
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
Days long agone.
...
Sweet is the voice that calls
From babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow
...
'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
...
I
A pleasant golden light fills all the chamber where I sit,
the amber curtains close are drawn, and shadows o’er then flit—
...
I
Have you sent her all her letters? have you given her back herring?
...
SUMMER Winds, whispering over the rye,
Kissing the roses and hurrying by,
Where have ye latest been, 0 where?
...
On hill and field October’s glories fade;
O’er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly;
The brown leaves rustle down tbe forest glade,
...
I must away to the wooded hills and vales,
Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently
And idle barges flap their listless sails.
...
George Arnold Biography
George Arnold (New York City, June 24, 1834 - November 9, 1865) was an author and poet. After briefly attempting a career as a portrait painter, he turned to writing and became a regular contributor to Vanity Fair and The Leader. A contemporary of Walt Whitman, Arnold was likewise a patron of Pfaff's beer cellar. His most enduring work is a humorous piece, The Jolly Old Pedagogue.)
The Best Poem Of George Arnold
Farewell To Summer
SUMMER is fading; the broad leaves that grew
So freshly green, when June was young, are falling;
And, all the whisper-haunted forest through,
The restless birds in saddened tones are calling,
From rustling hazel copse and tangled dell,
“Farewell, sweet Summer,
Fragrant, fruity Summer,
Sweet, farewell!”
Upon the windy hills, in many a field,
The honey-bees hum slow, above the clover,
Gleaning the latest sweets its blooms may yield,
And, knowing that their harvest-time is over,
Sing, half a lullaby and half a knell,
“Farewell, sweet Summer,
Honey-laden Summer,
Sweet, farewell!”
The little brook that babbles mid the ferns,
O’er twisted roots and sandy shallows playing,
Seems fain to linger in its eddied turns,
And with a plaintive, purling voice is saying
(Sadder and sweeter than my song can tell),
“Farewell, sweet Summer,
Warm and dreamy Summer,
Sweet, farewell!”
The fitful breeze sweeps down the winding lane
With gold and crimson leaves before it flying;
Its gusty laughter has no sound of pain,
But in the lulls it sinks to gentle sighing,
And mourns the Summer’s early broken spell,—
“Farewell, sweet Summer,
Rosy, blooming Summer,
Sweet, farewell!”
So bird and bee and brook and breeze make moan,
With melancholy song their loss complaining.
I too must join them, as I walk alone
Among the sights and sounds of Summer’s waning.…
I too have loved the season passing well.…
So, farewell, Summer,
Fair but faded Summer,
Sweet, farewell!
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