Autumn Regrets

That I were Keats! And with a golden pen      Could for all time preserve these golden days     In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,      Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze     With silent joy upon sweet Autumn's face,     And not record in any wise its grace!     Alas! But I am even dumb as they -     I cannot bid the fleeting hours stay,      Nor chain one moment on a page's space.     That I were Grieg! Then, with a haunting air      Of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains     Would I express my love of Autumn fair      With all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains:     And with fantastic melodies inspire     A memory of each mad sunset's fire     In which the day goes slowly to its death     As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath      Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir.     That I were Corot! Then September's gold      Would I store up in painted treasuries     That, when the world seemed grey I could behold      Its blazing colour with sweet memories,     And each elusive colour would be mine     That decorates these afternoons benign.     Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue     Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue      Of sky and haze, with genius divine.     How sad these wishes! When I have no art      Of poetry, or music, or of brush,     With which to calm the swelling of my heart      By capturing the misty country's hush     In muted violins; I cannot hymn     The shadowy silence of the copses dim;     Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.     Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,      When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!      WESTGATE.