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The autumn upon us was rushing, The Parks were deserted and lone — The streets were unpeopled and lone; My foot through the sere leaves was brushing. That over the pathway were strown — By the wind in its wanderings strown. I sighed — for my feelings were gushing Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne, Like lava liquescent lay gushing, And rose to the porphyry throne — To the filigree footstool were gushing, That stands on the steps of that throne — On the stolid stone steps of that throne! I cried —‘Shall the winter-leaves fret us?’ Oh, turn — we must turn to the fruit, To the freshness and force of the fruit! To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us — Her music that never grows mute (That maunders but never grows mute), The tendrils the vine branches net us, The lily, the lettuce, the lute — The esculent, succulent lettuce, And the languishing lily, and lute;— Yes;— the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; Late lily and lingering lute. Then come — let us fly from the city! Let us travel in orient isles — In the purple of orient isles — Oh, bear me — yes, bear me in pity To climes where a sun ever smiles — Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty Enhances pyramidal piles: Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty Awakens pyramidal piles — Yes:— his pointless perpetual ditty Perplexes pyramidal piles! |