Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FALL OF THE YEAR, by EMIL BLEMONT



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THE FALL OF THE YEAR, by            
First Line: Ah! Who hath not joy of chill autumn's slow coming?
Last Line: But blossoms and sings in the teeth of the wind.
Subject(s): Autumn; Seasons; Fall


AH! who hath not joy of chill Autumn's slow coming?
Who finds not delight in her wistful wan face?
When skies are all gray and the seas are all foaming,
Ah! then with sweet sorrow the heart fills apace.

Then the long day seems twilit at noon as at morning;
In the air full of tears, black and bare hang the boughs;
Then under the thatch the bright faggots are burning,
And fog's on the roof of the old manor-house.

With the pallor of death now the fallow-land blanches;
Nigh the stable that shelters the cattle from harm,
The reek rises upward between the slim branches
In spirals that curl from the litter still warm.

We walk full of dreams like a man that is sleeping;
We smell the sweet odours of harvests gone by,
And memory shines in the midst of our weeping
Like a star that is seen on the far-away sky.

We hearken no more to the cry of the swallow;
The sap shrinks away from the frost that doth bind;
All is mute. Love alone hath no time that is fallow,
But blossoms and sings in the teeth of the wind.





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