The brightness of the golden-rod Which, in September's prime, did fill The meadows when I hither trod, Has faded from each vale and hill. The sunset earlier paints the stock Of yon old oak which here doth brood; The vine is red about the rock, Within the silent wood. How lonely, in these sombre eves Of autumn, seems this ancient ground; O'er grave and tomb the withered leaves Have fallen; gone the song-bird's sound. Low head-stones, leaning different ways, Bear epitaphs of long-past years; Here rose the Mystic's hymn of praise, And fell his pious tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A CARELESS HEART by ISAAC ROSENBERG IN THE TRENCHES by ISAAC ROSENBERG |