The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;—
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;—
Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling,
With all the dark solemnities that show
That Death is in the dwelling!
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear—)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts,
Graven by Time, in love with his own lore;
By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts,
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
A little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown’
with silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.
Is there a bitter pang for love removed,
O God! The dead love doth not cost more tears
Than the alive, the loving, the beloved—