|
||
Down these grey slopes upon the year grown old, |
|
|
A-dying mid the autumn-scented haze, |
|
|
That hangeth o’er the hollow in the wold, |
|
|
Where the wind-bitten ancient elms enfold |
|
5 |
Grey church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead, |
||
Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead. |
Come down, O love; may not our hands still meet, |
|
|
Since still we live to-day, forgetting June, |
|
|
Forgetting May, deeming October sweet? |
|
10 |
O hearken, hearken! through the afternoon, |
|
|
The grey tower sings a strange old tinkling tune! |
|
|
Sweet, sweet, and sad, the toiling year’s last breath, |
|
|
Too satiate of life to strive with death. |
|
And we too; will it not be soft and kind, |
|
|
That rest from life, from patience and from pain; |
|
15 |
That rest from bliss we know not when we find; |
|
|
That rest from Love which ne’er the end can gain? |
|
|
Hark, how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane! |
|
|
Look up, love! ah, cling close and never move! |
|
20 |
How can I have enough of life and love? |
|
|
|
|
|
That mid the tangled vines, and clamorous |
|
|
Glad vintagers, stood calm, slim-pillared, white, |
|
|
As though it fain would hide away from sight |
|
|
The joy that through the sad lost autumn rung. |
|
5 |
As hot the day was, as when summer hung, |
|
|
With worn feet, on the last step of July, |
|
|
Ashamed to cast its flowery raiment by: |
|
|
Round the old men the white porch-pillars stood, |
|
|
Gold-stained, as with the sun, streaked as with blood, |
|
10 |
Blood of the earth, at least; and to and fro |
|
|
Before them did the high-girt maidens go, |
|
|
Eager, bright-eyed, and careless of to-morn; |
|
|
And young men with them, nowise made forlorn |
|
|
By love and autumn-tide; and in nowise |
|
15 |
Content to pray for love with hopeless eyes, |
|
|
Close lips, and timid hands; rather, indeed, |
|
|
Lest youth and life should fail them at their need, |
|
|
At what light joyous semblance of him ran |
|
|
Amidst the vines, ‘twixt eyes of maid and man, |
|
20 |
Wilfully blind they caught. But now at last, |
|
|
As in the apple-gathering tide late past, |
|
|
So would the elders do now; in a while, |
|
|
He who should tell the tale, with a grave smile, |
|
|
And eyes fixed on the fairest damsel there, |
|
25 |
Began to say: Ye blithe folk well might bear |
|
|
To hearken to a sad tale; yet to-day |
|
|
No heart I have to cast all hope away |
|
|
From out my history: so be warned hereby, |
|
|
Nor wait unto the end, deliciously |
|
30 |
To nurse your pity; for the end is good |
|
|
And peaceful, howso buffeting and rude |
|
|
Winds, waves, and men were, ere the end was done. |
|
|
The sweet eyes that his eyes were set upon |
|
|
Were hid by shamefast lids as he did speak, |
|
35 |
|
|
|
And her lips smiled, as, with a half-sad sigh, |
|
|
He ‘gan to tell this lovesome history. |
|
|