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lirik lagu gideon wagner - autumn - thomas hood

i saw old autumn in the misty morn
stand shadowless like silence, listening
to silence, for no lonely bird would sing
into his hollow ear from woods forlorn
nor lowly hedge nor solitary th~rn;—
shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
with tangled gossamer that fell by night
pearling his coronet of golden corn

where are the songs of summer?—with the sun
oping the dusky eyelids of the south
till shade and silence waken up as one
and morning sings with a warm odorous mouth
where are the merry birds?—away, away
on panting wings through the inclement skies
lest owls should prey
undazzled at noonday
and tear with h~rny beak their l~strous eyes

where are the blooms of summer?—in the west
blushing their last to the last sunny hours
when the mild eve by sudden night is prest
like tearful proserpine, sn~tch’d from her flow’rs
to a most gloomy breast
where is the pride of summer,—the green prime,—
the many, many leaves all twinkling?—three
on the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime
trembling,—and one upon the old oak~tree!
where is the dryad’s immortality?—
gone into mournful cypress and dark yew
or wearing the long gloomy winter through
in the smooth holly’s green eternity
the squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d h~~rd
the ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain
and honey bees have stored
the sweets of summer in their luscious cells;
the swallows all have wing’d across the main;
but here the autumn melancholy dwells
and sighs her tearful spells
amongst the sunless shadows of the plain
alone, alone
upon a mossy stone
she sits and reckons up the dead and gone
with the last leaves for a love~rosary
whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily
like a dim picture of the drowned past
in the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away
doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
into that distance, gray upon the gray

o go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded
under the languid downfall of her hair:
she wears a coronal of flowers faded
upon her forehead, and a face of care;—
there is enough of wither’d everywhere
to make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
there is enough of sadness to invite
if only for the rose that died, whose doom
is beauty’s,—she that with the living bloom
of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
there is enough of sorrowing, and quite
enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
enough of fear and shadowy despair
to frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

- lirik lagu gideon wagner

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