Autumn

I dwell alone - I dwell alone, alone,         Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,     Gilded with flashing boats         That bring no friend to me:     O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,         O love-pangs, let me be.     Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone         And spices bear to sea:     Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,         Love-promising, entreating -         Ah! sweet, but fleeting -         Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.         Hush! the wind flags and fails -     Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand -         Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;     Their songs wake singing echoes in my land -         They cannot hear me moan.         One latest, solitary swallow flies         Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,         Poor bird, shall it be lost?         Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,         With no kind eyes         To watch it while it dies,          Unguessed, uncared for, free:         Set free at last,         The short pang past,     In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.     Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,         Some rent by thunder strokes,     Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;         Fair fall my fertile trees,     That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.     A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;         He catches down and foolish painted flies         That spider wary and wise.     Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew         Betwixt boughs green with sap,         So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:         I will not mar the web,     Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.     It shakes - my trees shake - for a wind is roused         In cavern where it housed:         Each white and quivering sail,         Of boats among the water leaves     Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:         Each maiden sings again -     Each languid maiden, whom the calm     Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm         Miles down my river to the sea         They float and wane,         Long miles away from me.         Perhaps they say: 'She grieves,         Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.'         Perhaps they say: 'One hour     More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.'         Perhaps they say: 'One hour         More, and we stand,         Face to face, hand in hand;     Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!'         My trees are not in flower,         I have no bower,         And gusty creaks my tower,     And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.