THOMAS HOOD

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,

The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,

And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells ; The swallows all have wing'd across the main ; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,

And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone,

She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care; There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower, and enough of gloom ; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl ; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul !

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