"BUT YE--SHALL I BEHOLD YOU WHEN LEAVES FALL, IN SOME SAD EVENING OP THE AUTUMN-TIDE?" I marked the slow withdrawal of the year, Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone-- The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn. A robin's song fell through the silence--clear As long ago it rang when June was here. Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn Across the sky; and all the song was gone, And all the gold was quick to disappear, That day the sun seemed loth to come again; And all day long the low wind spoke of rain, Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth, Knowing some giant grief had come to birth, Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun.…
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