Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AUTUMN IN THE HIGHLANDS; AFTER KEATS, by JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP Poet's Biography First Line: October misty bright, the touch is thine Last Line: And crackling grouse-cock whirs on pinions strong. Subject(s): Autumn; Scotland; Seasons; Fall | ||||||||
I OCTOBER misty bright, the touch is thine That the full year to consummation brings, When noonday suns and nightly frosts combine To make a glory that outrivals spring's; The mountain bases swathed in russet fern, Their middle girths with deer-grass golden pale, And the high summits touched with earliest snows From summer dreamings lift to thoughts more stern; Then doth the harvest-moon in beauty sail O'er the far peaks and the mist steaming vale, While silver-sheened our household river flows. II Who hath not seen thee clambering up the crag, On sunny days in many-hued attire, Making wild cherry trees thy scarlet flag, And kindling rowan boughs to crimson fire? Sometimes on dizzy rock-ledge thou art seen, Even as an angel from high heaven new-lit, Quivering aloft in aspen's pallid gold; Or far up mountains queen-like thou dost sit, Cushioned on mosses orange, purple, green, Or down their bases homeward thou dost lean, Loaded with withered ferns, a housewife old. III What though the summer mountain fruits are gone, Though of black crowberries grouse have eat their fill? A few belated cloudberries linger on High on the moist hill-breast where mists distill: And now the prickly juniper displays On dry warm banks his pungent fruitage blue, Deep in pine-forests wortleberries show Their box-like leaves and fruit of bright red hue, And old fail-dykes along the upland braes, Fringed with blaeberry leaves in scarlet blaze, Add to October sunsets richer glow. IV And for thy songs, home-carting late-won peats. Crofters low-humming down hill-tracks return; While here and there some lone ewe-mother bleats Fitfully, for last summer's lamb forlorn; O'er heather brown no wild bee's murmurs float, The pewits gone, shy curlews haste to leave The high moors where they screeched the summer long; From slaughtering guns the mountains win reprieve; But still far up on mossy haggs remote The plover sits and pipes her plaintive note, And crackling grouse-cock whirs on pinions strong. | 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 CAILLEACH BEIN-Y-VREICH by JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP |
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