Autumn Sorrow


Madison Cawein

Ah me! too soon the autumn comes

Among these purple-plaintive hills!

Too soon among the forest gums

Premonitory flame she spills,

Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.

Her white fogs veil the morn, that rims

With wet the moonflower's elfin moons;

And, like exhausted starlight, dims

The last slim lily-disk; and swoons

With scents of hazy afternoons.

Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,

And build the west's cadaverous fires,

Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,

And hands that wake an ancient lyre,

Beside the ghost of dead Desire.

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