The hazel tips that yellow in the light
Along the border of the moss-grown wall
Like gleaming threads of gold; the echoed call
Of quail amid the rustling foliage bright;
The sense of something lost, of past delight;
These all are thine, O saddening Autumn! All
That might have been or was, of great or small,
Of grave or gay, presses upon the sight.
The soul grows grave although it counts its gain--
The gleanings of the summer of the heart--
It is the summer we regret in vain,
Which we have spent in toil. Deceitful art!
That makes a glorious present seem but pain,
While in the search for what must not depart.
