THE Autumn skies are flushed with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun. In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud. 'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms That on the cheerless valleys fall, The flowers are in their grassy tombs, And tears of dew are on them all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD; OCTOBER, 1861 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL A MINUET ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY by GEORGE SANTAYANA TWO VARIATIONS ON AN OLD NURSEY RHYME: 2 by EDITH SITWELL NORTHERN FARMER, NEW STYLE by ALFRED TENNYSON SOUL AND BODY by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE COMMENDATORY VERSES TO MASSINGER'S PLAY, 'THE BONDMAN' by WILLIAM BASSE |