by J.D.G.
Originally published in The Quiver (John Cassell) vol.1 #4 (14 Oct 1865).
The apples were well nigh mellow,
And the corn was in the rick;
But the stubble yet was yellow,
And the woodland yet was thick;
And the wavering waters crossing
The tarnished weeds below,
Made patterns of gold embossing
In their faded beds to glow.
In the lane that the ash-trees cover—
The lane that leads to the waste—
I happed on a luckless lover
To whom life had lost its taste;
Who saw but the first leaves falling,
And talked of the dying year,
And heard but the lapwing calling
From the borders of yonder mere.
Then I praised the glorious weather,
And the harvest safely stored,
And the purple blooming heather,
But he answered not a word.
So our silent steps we quickened,
Till a brook it needed to cross,
Whose shallow stream was thickened
With filmy water-moss.
Said I, "Those shadowy tissues
Fill up the silvery tide,
As well as the weed that issues
In frondage deep and wide.
"So sorrows half ideal,
If undisturbed they grow,
Like troubles dismally real,
Darken life's splendid flow.
"Those mosses would almost vanish
If rudely brought to shore;
So have we need to banish
Sad dreams we ponder o'er;
"So, their true weight revealing,
To thrust our cares aside,
Till the current of thought and feeling
Flows with a healthier tide."
"I thank you for your talk, sir,"
He said—his hand upon my arm—
"I wish you a merrier walk, sir;
I must go back to my farm."