Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The birds laugh loud and long together
    When Fashion's followers speed away
At the first cool breath of autumn weather.
    Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
    Both look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover
    Might each gaze into the other's face.

Oh! this is the time when careful spying
    Discovers the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies plan for flying
    (Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You see some day by the water's edges
    A brilliant border of red and black;
And then off over the hills and hedges
    It flutters away on the summer's track.

The shy little sumacs, in lonely places,
    Bowed all summer with dust and heat,
Like clean-clad children with rain-washed faces,
    Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.
And never a flower had the boastful summer,
    In all the blossoms that decked her sod,
So royal hued as that later comer
    The purple chum of the goldenrod.

Some chill grey dawn you note with grieving
    That the King of Autumn is on his way.
You see, with a sorrowful, slow believing,
    How the wanton woods have gone astray,
They wear the stain of bold caresses,
    Of riotous revels with old King Frost;
They dazzle all eyes with their gorgeous dresses,
    Nor care that their green young leaves are lost.

A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
    The wood's gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound, and your heart takes warning―
    The birds are planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and wrangle,
    Their tempers are ruffled, their voices loud;
Then whirr and away in a feathered tangle,
    To fade in the south like a passing cloud.

            Envoi
A songless wood stripped bare of glory―
    A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story:
    Oh! let us away to the gay bright town.

God sent us here to make mistakes,
    To strive, to fail, to re-begin,
    To taste the tempting fruit of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes.

To miss the path, to go astray,
    To wander blindly in the night;
    But, searching, praying for the light,
Until at last we find the way.

And looking back along the past,
    We know we needed all the strain
    Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
To make us value peace, at last.

Who fails, finds later triumph sweet;
    Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
    And knows the place to cry "Beware"
To other unaccustomed feet.

Through strife the slumbering soul awakes,
    We learn on error's troubled route
    The truths we could not prize without
The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
    Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
    Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
    I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side,
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.

                And no trace
    Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
    And the sharp corners of my discontent
    Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
    Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
    Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."

My life's long radiant Summer halts at last,
    And lo! beside my path way I behold
    Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
    Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
    Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast

My August days behind me with my May,
    Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
        Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
    I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
        And call September nothing but September.

Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
    Neglected dress, and loud insistent tones,
    More rasping than the wrongs which she bemoans,
Walks through the land and wearies all who hear,
    While yet we know the need of such reform;
    So comes unlovely March, with wind and storm,
To break the spell of winter, and set free
    The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
    Severe of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful to see.
    But merry April and sweet smiling May
    Come not till March has first prepared the way.