Autumn in the West

the autumn time is with us. Its approach Was heralded, not many days ago, By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun, And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn, And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily By pendent clusters of empurpling grapes Swinging upon the vine. And now, ’t is here! And what a change hath passed upon the face Of nature, where the waving forest spreads, Then robed in deepest green! All through the night The subtle frost has plied its magic art; And in the day the golden sun hath wrought True wonders; and the winds of morn and even Have touched with magic breath the changing leaves. And now, as wanders the dilating eye Athwart the varied landscape, circling far, What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight! Here, where the poplar rears its yellow crest, A golden glory; yonder, where the oak Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad The dogwood spreads beneath, and, fringing all, The sumac blushes to the ground, a flood Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms The gnarlëd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red. Out in the woods of autumn! I have cast Aside the shackles of the town, that vex The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself, Miami! in thy venerable shades. Here where seclusion looks out on a scene Of matchless beauty, I will pause awhile, And on this bank with varied mosses crowned Gently recline. Beneath me, silver-bright, Glide the calm waters, with a plaintive moan For summer’s parting glories. High o’er-head, Seeking the sedgy brinks of still lagoons That bask in southern suns the winter through, Sails tireless the unerring waterfowl, Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from where, In bushy covert hid, the partridge stands, Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud, Far-echoing through the dim wood’s fretted aisles. Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with brown And ripened mast, are interrupted oft By sounds of dropping nuts; and warily The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift As flies an arrow darts the pheasant down, To batten on the autumn; and the air, At times, is darkened by a sudden rush Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads His squadrons to the banquet. Far away. Where tranquil groves on sunny slopes supply Their liberal store of fruits, the merry laugh Of children, and the truant school-boy’s shout, Ring on the air, as, from the hollows borne, Nuts load their creaking carts, and lush pawpaws Their motley baskets fill, with clustering grapes And golden-sphered persimmons spread o’er all.