Frances Anne Kemble - Autumn lyrics

Thou comest not in sober guise, In mellow cloak of russet clad— Thine are no melancholy skies, Nor hueless flowers pale and sad; But, like an emperor, triumphing, With gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes, Full flush of fragrant blossoming, And glowing purple canopies. How call ye this the season's fall, That seems the pageant of the year, Richer and brighter far than all The pomp that spring and summer wear? Red falls the westering light of day On rock and stream and winding shore; Soft woody banks and granite gray With amber clouds are curtained o'er; The wide clear waters sleeping lie Beneath the evening's wings of gold, And on their gla**y breast the sky And banks their mingled hues unfold. Far in the tangled woods, the ground Is strewn with fallen leaves, that lie Like crimson carpets all around Beneath a crimson canopy. The sloping sun with arrows bright Pierces the forest's waving maze; The universe seems wrapt in light,— A floating robe of rosy haze. O Autumn! thou art here a king; And round thy throne the smiling hours A thousand fragrant tributes bring Of golden fruits and blushing flowers. Oh! not upon thy fading fields and fells In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee, My home!—but o'er thy mountains and thy dells His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly, Nor flower nor bud remaineth there to him, Save the faint-breathing rose, that, round the year, Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim, In lowly beauty constantly doth wear. O'er yellow stubble lands, in mantle brown, He wanders through the wan October light; Still as he goeth, slowly stripping down The garlands green that were the spring's delight. At morn and eve thin silver vapours rise Around his path; but sometimes at mid-day He looks along the hills with gentle eyes, That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay. Yet something of sad sov'reignty he hath— A sceptre crown'd with berries ruby red; And the cold sobbing wind bestrews his path With wither'd leaves that rustle 'neath his tread; And round him still, in melancholy state, Sweet solemn thoughts of d**h and of decay, In slow and hush'd attendance, ever wait, Telling how all things fair must pa** away.