Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE FALL OF THE LEAF, by HENRY DAVID THOREAU Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Grown tired of this rank summer's wealth Last Line: Or pine upon the winter's crudity. Subject(s): Autumn; Seasons; Winter; Fall | ||||||||
Grown tired of this rank summer's wealth, Its raw and superficial show, I fain would hie away by stealth Where no roads meet, but still 't doth trivial grow. A sober mind will walk alone, Apart from nature if need be, And only its own seasons own, For nature having its humanity. Sometimes a late autumnal thought Has crossed my mind in green July, And to its early freshness brought Late ripend fruits and an autumnal sky. A dry but golden thought which gleamed Athwart the greenness of my mind, And prematurely wise it seemed, Too ripe mid summer's youthful bowers to find. So have I seen one yellow leaf Amid the glossy leaves of June, Which pensive hung, though not with grief, Like some fair flower, it had changed so soon. I scent my med'cine from afar, Where the rude simpler of the year October leads the rustling war, And strews his honors on the summer's bier. The evening of the year draws on, The fields a later aspect wear, Since summer's garishness is gone Some grains of night tincture the noontide air. Behold the shadows of the trees Now circle wider 'bout their stem, Like sentries which by slow degrees Perform their rounds, gently protecting them. And as the season doth decline The sun affords a scantier light, Behind each needle of the pine There lurks a small auxiliar of the night. After each shrub and straggling fence That marks the meadow's pensive green, And shows the meadow's opulence, Evening's insidious foot at noon is seen. Wave upon wave a mellower air Flows over all the region, As if there were some tincture there Of ripeness caught from the long summer's sun. I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay Around, beneath me, and on high, It rocks the night, it lulls the day, And everywhere 'tis nature's lullaby. But most he chirps beneath the sod, Where he hath made his winter's bed, His creak grown fainter, but more broad, A film of autumn o'er the summer spread. Upon my bed at early dawn I hear the cocks proclaim the day, Though the moon shines serenely on As if her queenly course they could not stay; Nor pull her down with their faint din From riding at that lofty height, Who in her shining knows no sin, But is unconscious of a nobler light. The stars withhold their shining not Or singly or in scattered crowds, But seem like Parthian arrows shot By yielding night 'mid the advancing clouds. And has time got so forward then? From what perennial fount of joy Do ye inspire the hearts of men, And teach them how the daylight to employ? From your abundance pray impart, Who dost so freely spill, Some bravery unto my heart, Or let me taste of thy perennial rill. Small birds in fleets migrating by Now beat across some meadow's bay, And as they tack and veer on high, With faint and hurried click beguile the way. The moon is ripe fruit in the sky Which overhangs her harvest now, The sun doth break his stem well nigh From summer's height he has declined so low. The greedy earth doth pluck his fruit, And cast it in night's lap, The stars more brightly glisten, mute Though their tears be, to see their lords mishap. The harvest rattles in the wind, Ripe apples overhang the hay, The cereal flavor of my mind Natheless, tells me I am as ripe as they. I hearing get who had but ears, And sight who had but eyes before, I moments live who lived but years, And truth discern who knew but learning's lore. Far in the woods these golden days Some leaf obeys its maker's call, And through their hollow aisles it plays With delicate touch the prelude of the fall. Gently withdrawing from its stem It lightly lays itself along, Where the same hand hath pillowed them Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng. The loneliest birch is brown and sere, The farthest pool is strewn with leaves, Which float upon their watery bier, Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves. I marked when first the wind grew rude Each leaf curled like a living thing, As if with the ripe air it would Secure some faint memorial of the spring. Then for its sake it turned a boat And dared new elements to brave, A painted palace which did float A summer's hoarded wealth to save. Oh could I catch these sounds remote, Could I preserve to human ear, The strains which on the breezes float, And sing the requiem of the dying year. I stood beside an oaken copse When the first gale of autumn sighed, It gently waved the birch tree tops Then rustled the oak leaves and died But not the strains which it awoke, For in my inmost sense I hear The melody of which it spoke Still faintly rising on my inward ear. A ripple on the river fell, A shadow o'er the landscape passed, And still the whispering ferns could tell Whither the stranger travelled so fast. How stand the cottages of men In these so fair October days, Along the wood along the fen I see them looming through the mellow haze. Immersed in Nature there they lie Against some cliff or chestnuts shade Scarce obvious to the travellers eye Who thoughtful traverses the forest glade. The harvest lies about the door The chestnut drops its burs around As if they were the stock that bore The yellow crops that strew the ground. The lily loves the river's tide The meadow's are the daisy's haunt The aspens on the mountain side Here child of nature grows the human plant. The jay screams through the chestnut wood The crisped and yellow leaves around Are hue and texture of my mood, And these rough burs my heirlooms on the ground. The thread bare trees so poor and thin They are no wealthier than I, But with as brave a core within They rear their boughs to the October sky. Poor knights they are which bravely wait The charge of winter's cavalry, Keeping a simple Roman state Discumbered of their Persian luxury. Thank God who seasons thus the year And sometimes kindly slants his rays, For in his winter he's most near And plainest seen upon the shortest days. Who gently tempers now his heats And then his harsher cold, lest we Should surfeit on the summer's sweets, Or pine upon the winter's crudity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR AUTUMN by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN AN AUTUMN JOY by GEORGE ARNOLD A LEAF FALLS by MARION LOUISE BLISS THE FARMER'S BOY: AUTUMN by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD A LETTER IN OCTOBER by TED KOOSER AUTUMN EVENING by DAVID LEHMAN EVERYTHING THAT ACTS IS ACTUAL by DENISE LEVERTOV |
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