The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 74

II.

The west is broken into bars Of orange, gold, and gray; Gone is the sun, fast come the stars, And night infolds the day.

My boat glides with the gliding stream, Following adown its breast One flowing mirrored amber gleam, The death-smile of the west.

The river moves; the sky is still, No ceaseless quest it knows: Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill At sight of its repose.

The ripples run; all patient sit The stars above the night.

In shade and gleam the waters flit: The heavens are changeless bright!

III.

Alone I lie, buried amid The long luxurious gra.s.s; The bats flit round me, born and hid In twilight's wavering ma.s.s.

The fir-top floats, an airy isle, High o'er the mossy ground; Harmonious silence breathes the while In scent instead of sound.

The flaming rose glooms swarthy red; The borage gleams more blue; Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed Glimmers the rich dusk through.

Hid in the summer gra.s.s I lie, Lost in the great blue cave; My body gazes at the sky, And measures out its grave.

IV.

What art thou, gathering dusky cool, In slow gradation fine?

Death's lovely shadow, flickering full Of eyes about to s.h.i.+ne.

When weary Day goes down below, Thou leanest o'er his grave, Revolving all the vanished show The gracious splendour gave.

Or art thou not she rather--say-- Dark-browed, with luminous eyes, Of whom is born the mighty Day, That fights and saves and dies?

For action sleeps with sleeping light; Calm thought awakes with thee: The soul is then a summer night, With stars that s.h.i.+ne and see.

_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_.

I.

We bore him through the golden land, One early harvest morn; The corn stood ripe on either hand-- He knew all about the corn.

How shall the harvest gathered be Without him standing by?

Without him walking on the lea, The sky is scarce a sky.

The year's glad work is almost done; The land is rich in fruit; Yellow it floats in air and sun-- Earth holds it by the root.

Why should earth hold it for a day When harvest-time is come?

Death is triumphant o'er decay, And leads the ripened home.

II.

And though the sun be not so warm, His s.h.i.+ning is not lost; Both corn and hope, of heart and farm, Lie hid from coming frost.

The sombre woods are richly sad, Their leaves are red and gold: Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad Signs that we men grow old?

Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain From fields and days gone by; And mournful memories again Are born, are loved, and die.

The mornings clear, the evenings cool Foretell no wintry wars; The day of dying leaves is full, The night of glowing stars.

III.

'Tis late before the sun will rise, And early he will go; Gray fringes hang from the gray skies, And wet the ground below.

Red fruit has followed golden corn; The leaves are few and sere; My thoughts are old as soon as born, And chill with coming fear.

The winds lie sick; no softest breath Floats through the branches bare; A silence as of coming death Is growing in the air.

But what must fade can bear to fade-- Was born to meet the ill: Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!

We sorrow, and are still.

IV.

There is no longer any heaven To glorify our clouds; The rising vapours downward driven Come home in palls and shrouds.

The sun himself is ill bested A heavenly sign to show; His radiance, dimmed to glowing red, Can hardly further go.

An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, Pervade the moveless air; The year is sinking to its tomb, And death is everywhere.

But while sad thoughts together creep, Like bees too cold to sting, G.o.d's children, in their beds asleep, Are dreaming of the spring.

_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_.

I.

O night, send up the harvest moon To walk about the fields, And make of midnight magic noon On lonely tarns and wealds.

In golden ranks, with golden crowns, All in the yellow land, Old solemn kings in rustling gowns, The shocks moon-charmed stand.