The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (4.1895)

An Autumn Elegy

By C. W. Dalmon

Now it is fitting, and becomes us all

To think how fast our time of being fades.

The Year puts down his mead-cup, with a sigh,

And kneels, deep in the red and yellow glades,

And teils his beads like one about to die ;

For, when the last leaves fall,

He must away unto a bare, cold cell

In white St. Winter’s monastery ; there
To do hard penance for the joys that werc,

Until the New Year tolls his passing-bell.

And ’tis in vain to whisper, “Be of cheer,

There is a resurrection after death :

When Autumn tears will turn to Spring-time rain,
As through the earth the Spirit quickeneth
Toward the old, glad Summer-life again ! ”

He will not smile to hear,

But only look more sorrowful, and say,

“ How can you mock me if you love me ? No ;
The day draws very nigh when I must go ;

The new will be the new 5 I pass away.”

The Yellow Book—Vol. IV.

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