Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition

Poems by William Allingham (Author: William Allingham)

poem 12

Late Autumn

1. October,— and the skies are cool and grey
   O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
   Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.
   The dignity of woods in rich decay
   Accords full well with this majestic grief
   That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,
   Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief.
   Only a robin sings from any spray.
   And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills
   White mist around the hollows of the hills,
   Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
   His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,
   In-islanded; but no vain terror thrills
   His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.

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