by Thomas Hood.
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.2 #3 (Oct 1861).
I.
Who sings of pallid primroses, that fringe
Departing Winter's mantle, and the gust
Of hidden violets; or lauds the tinge
Of roses, hymned by toiling bees, a-dust
With golden spoil—his music is unjust,
If in the wiser measure of his lays,
Sweet Matron of the Year, he have no song
To speak the ripened glories of thy days,
When thro' the evening long
The sunlight strong
Wrestles among the meshes of the haze,
And o'er the deep blue garments of the Night
Sheds ruddy light,
And spangles all their edges with its rays.
II.
Mother of Earth, whose full-orbed bosom feeds
The sons of men—the hungry round thy knee
Gather in hope; with grateful trust in thee.
A-field with crescent keen the reaper speeds,
Plunging at early morn
Among the billowy corn,
Like a bold swimmer in a golden sea.
Of things inanimate thou know'st the needs!
And from the trees, before the Winter drear,
The dead-leaves, bronze and brown,
Thou shakest down
Among the ferns and mosses at the roots,
To grow again in fruits,
And glad the branches of another year.
III.
The winged and downy seeds thy gales bestow
In cunning nooks, beyond the search of frost,
That in the coming seasons they may blow,
And not the simplest wild-flower e'er be lost,—
Nor tiniest foundling, by hard parent tost
Into thy gentle lap,
May ever hap
Upon a grave untimely in the snow;—
Such is thy tender providence. Nor yet
Dost thou at all forget
The Present in the Future's cares! For crown'd
With fruit and flowers and corn,
Thy plenteous horn
Scatters its o'erbrimmed riches on the ground!
IV.
I love thee, Autumn; when thy drowsy air
Trembles in concert with the aspen's leaves,
When birds are piping down among the sheaves
And in the berried hedges everywhere.
Ah, fain would I to some dim bower escape,
Where round the musky grape
The sunlight with the shadow interweaves;
There would I knit such music in my lines
To frame a minstrelsy
That should be worthier thee,
And mould my fancies to a nobler shape,
Singing, beneath the coronal of vines,
To joyful strings,
Giver of all fair things,
Of the delights that in thine empire live,
How warmer suns flood thee with lavish rays,
How broader moons upon thy harvests gaze—
So Heaven gifts greatly those who greatly give!