No flaming hue is here, For no youth is in the fold -- They are old, very old, And they garb in russet and gold. The burning maples are near; The pine is a sound like a tear: One is too sombre, one is too gay For this autumn holiday. The mists are cold on the low ponds And the frost is chill; But the world is warm with crimson and bronze Where the oaks stand on the hill. The yellow willow leaf Has gone to an early rest; The leaves of the elm Marched on at a wind from the west. Only the oak leaves remain With their brave russet and gold: Their fires shall burn to the edge Of the winter's cold. What do the oak leaves think In this rich, thoughtful hour? Are they doleful at going From so fair a bower? Or sad as a limner Who, in sight of the prize, Must give up forever His long-beloved dyes? Or do they wonder Who, when they are dead, All others having gone before, Shall make their last bed? Russet and bronze and gold, You shall not leave Without fitting mourners To weep and grieve. The rose-pod is yet burning In the quiet roadside air: When the oak's bronze goes out There will be some one to care. Shall we go to sleep -- To the unbreathing Deep -- Like black weeds touched with frost? Nay! Age is the time for bright colors, Though life be the cost. Youth is a fine adventure, But it's rare to be old And to go to the Master of Colors In russet and bronze and gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARAGRAPHS: 15 by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE ORANGE PICKER by DAVID IGNATOW SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DOW BRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EPILOGUE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BUCOLIC COMEDY: KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID by EDITH SITWELL |