Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CLOSING SCENE, by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CLOSING SCENE, by                 Poet's Biography
First Line: Within the sober realm of leafless trees
Last Line: Scene.
Subject(s): War


WITHIN the sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further and the stream sang
low,
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight;
The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's com-
plaint;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and
faint.

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, --
Crew thrice, -- and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged
young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung; --

Where sang the nosy martens of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near, --
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year; --

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at
morn,
To warn the reaper of the rosy east: --
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy
gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by
night,
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by, -- passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this -- in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, --

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron with monotonous tread
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow, -- he had walked with
her,
Oft supped, the broke the bitter ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet on her cheek was bright with summer
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gaver her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, --
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall.

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew
And struck for Liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous
tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was
bowed;
Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the autumn
scene.




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