The Yellow Book/Volume 4/An Autumn Elegy

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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 tells 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 were,  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; I pass away."
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Yet, kneeling with him, still more sad than he,  I saw him once turn round and smile as sweet   As in the happy rose and lily days,  When, from between the stubble of the wheat,   A skylark soared up through the clouds to praise     The sun's eternity.  Hope seemed to flash a moment in his eyes;  And, knowing him so well, I know he thought—   "How fair the legend through the ages brought,  That still to live is Death's most sweet surprise!"

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