Quote:
Originally posted by ABBAKiss
Is he dead to you also?
|
The Death of the Flower
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where is the Flower, the fair young flower, that lately sprang
and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous brotherhood?
Alas! he lies in a shallow grave, the gentle grace of Flower
Is lying in his lowly bed, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where he lies, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely one again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade,
and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home:
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flower whose fragrance late he
bore,
And sighs to find him in the wood and by the stream no more.
Linear Mode
