With plaintive throat, her dull and tremulous cry!
The sickle of the husbandman hath ceased,
And left the lap of Nature shorn and bare;
The odorous clover flowers have disappear'd;
The yellow pendulous grain is seen no more,
The perfume of the bean-field has decay'd;
And roams the wandering bee o'er many a path,
For blossoms which have perish'd. Grassy blades,
Transparent, taper, and of sickly growth,
Shoot, soon to wither, in the sterile fields.
The garden fruits have mellow'd with the year,
And, save the lingering apricot, remains
Nor trace nor token of the summer's wealth!
Yet, on the wild-brier stands the yellow hip;
And, from the branches of the mountain-ash,
The clustering berries drop their crimson beads
Descending. On the dark laburnum's sides,
Mix pods of lighter green among the leaves,
Taper, and springless, hasting to decay;
And on the wintry honeysuckle's stalk
The succulent berries hang. The robin sits
Upon the mossy gateway, singing clear
A requiem to the glory of the woods.
And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent shower
Of wither'd leaves bestrews the weedy paths,
Or from the branches of the willow whirl,
With rustling sound, upon the turbid stream.
Nature is smiling in her loveliness.
Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravines,
Shown by their outlines drawn against the hills,
Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups,
Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-top,
Expand upon my sight. October's brush
The scene has colour'd; not with those broad hues
Mix'd in his later pallet by the frost,
And dash'd upon the picture till the eye
Aches with varied splendour, but in tints
Left by light, scatter'd touches. Overhead
There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky,
A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue;
A trembling veil of gauze is stretch'd athwart
The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;
A soothing quiet broods upon the air,
And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.
Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark-
The bleat-the tinkle-whistle-blast of horn-
The rattle of the waggon-wheel-the low—
The fowler's shot-the twitter of the bird,
And e'en the hum of converse from the road.
The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears
As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly
Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily
It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops,
The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out
In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps.
The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,
Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e'en the ant
Darts round less eagerly.
Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful
Beneath its yellow lustre groves and
Checker'd by one night's frost with various
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below,
With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee, long roving here and there
To find a single flower, but all in vain ;
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing, save perhaps
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.
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