I WIND has whipped the willows bare, Frost has browned the grass; All through the autumn air Let us cry alas! Loud sing the gaunt reeds Till all the shore has heard, That hidden in the blackened weeds There is no bird; There is no flower ashine In the stubble corn; Bracken lifted thin and fine Is shrivelled now, and torn. Oh, to leave the bleak hill Where the air grieves, And in the valley, dark and chill, Go bury us in leaves! II TURN, turn away From the hills of gold; Soon they are grey And wasted and old. Close raptured eyes From the maples fire; Soon it sinks and dies In the trodden mire. Bend your proud head Under the bright wind... The garden all is dead And the poplars thinned. You are no more Than a yellow leaf— The wind makes you soar— Flight is swift and brief... Clear light will fall Soon, in the West; Vain are winds that call To your deep unrest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY CLASS: ON CERTAIN FRUITS AND FLOWERS SENT ... SICKNESS by SIDNEY LANIER JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SANTA FE SKETCHES by CARL SANDBURG IN THE STREETS by LOUIS UNTERMEYER |