Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | October 22, 2009


by Priscilla Jane Thompson (1871 – 1942).

Autumn (1900)

The sun shines bright, but sadly,
Upon the earth’s decline;
The high wind, cool and searching,
Showers leaves from clinging vine;
The wood, in gorgeous burial shroud,
Like some great prince in state,
Is viewed by sable mantled crows,
Who mourn its luckless fate.

The weeds are dry and blasted,
Within the grainless field,
And to the sturdy hunter’s tread,
Their ripened seeds they yield;
And the shot gun’s constant firing,
Booms salute o’er fallen game;
While the fleet hound’s doleful baying,
Sounds the ‘taps, ‘mid smoke and flame.

Our thoughts are ever turning,
To sad scenes long gone by;
And, despite contrary efforts,
We are ever heaving sigh.
Nature seems to hold us mourners,
With a spell—sad, undefined,
For the faded leaves and blossoms,
By a palling of the mind.


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