Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death,
beside its dying sacrificial fire;
the dim world's middle-age of vain desire
is strangely troubled, waiting for the breath
that speaks the winter's welcome malison
to fix it in the unremembering sleep:
the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep,
and in the faded sorrow of the sun,
I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one,
forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces,
fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year.
They wander not nor wring their hands nor weep,
discrown'd belated dreams! but in the drear
and lingering world we sit among the trees
and bow our heads as they, with frozen mouth,
looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clear
sad splendour of the winter of the far south.
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Comments
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Heh, me too. The more I read of him, the greater my admiration of his skill and perception becomes.
Heh...this is what good poetry does to me: makes me go all flowery-ish in my talkageness :-P
I love the flow of this one: gives the feeling of something eternal - and the imagery is wonderful. -
I really like this poem by Christopher Brennan...I chose it to do a school project.
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