The Literary Maiden

A compendium of obscure 19th century writing.

Tag: autumn

“The Frost” by Jones Very

The Frost.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE frost is out, and in the open fields,
And late within the woods, I marked his track;
The unwary flower his icy fingers feels,
And at their touch the crispëd leaf rolls back;—
Look, how the maple o’er a sea of green
Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red!
First struck of all the forest’s spreading screen,
Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead.
Go on: thy task is kindly meant by Him
Whose is each flower and richly covered bough;
And though the leaves hang dead on every limb,
Still will I praise his love, that early now
Has sent before this herald of decay
To bid me heed the approach of Winter’s sterner
day.

“Thoughts In Autumn” by Anna Peyre Dinnies

 

 

Thoughts In Autumn
Anna Peyre Dinnies
From the Poets and Poetry of America by Rufus Griswold, 1842, pg. 385.

Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes,
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene,
The starry vaults, o’er which the charm’d eye ranges,
And cold, clear moonlight, touching every scene
With a peculiar sadness, are sweet things,
To which my heart congenial fondly clings.

There is a moral in the wither’d wreaths
And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers;
Each blighted shrub, chill’d flower, or sear’d leaf breathes
Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours,
Contracting with the present dreary scene
Spring’s budding beauties, pleasures which have been.

“Autumn Days” by Jones Very

Autumn Days.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE winds are out with loud increasing shout,
Where late before them walked the biting frost,
Whirling the leaves in their wild sport about,
And twig and limb athwart our path are tost.
But still the sun looks kindly on the year,
And days of summer warmth will linger yet;
And still the birds amid the fields we hear,
For the ripe grain and scattered seeds they get.
The shortening days grow slowly less and less,
And Winter comes with many a warning on;
And still some day with kindly smile will bless,
Till the last hope’s deceit is fledged and gone,
Before the deepening snows block up the way,
And the sweet fields are made of howling blasts
the prey.

“The Harvest Moon” by Herbert Randall

The Harvest Moon
By Herbert Randall
From the Connecticut Magazine, Vol. 6, July-August, 1900, pg. 347

On the marge of the suburnt meadow
The dusk came a-drifting in.
It covered the glow of twilight;
The dream-weavers hushed their din
Of work at the looms of autumn,
And one by one dropt to sleep,
Till the last of their drowsy murmurs
Died into the greying deep.

Then far in the hanging distance
Appeared in the lonely air
A vision of wond’rous glory.
Upheld in the darkness there.
It smiled on the dying summer,
That wrapt like a dreamer lay;
Then up thro’ the smoky heavens
Away on its quest, away—

Up, up thro’ the trackless ether—
On, on, thro’ the vast of night
It moved like a fearless spirit,
Impelled by its own wan light.
It made not a rift in the stillness—
No rift in the great deep sky;
But the song of the wakeful pleiad
As the wanderer passed them by

Was one of an apple harvest—
Of solace and joy supreme;
The pines in the forest listened,
The elms by the shining stream
Slept, nursed by the brooding silence,
And a voice that awoke in me
Filled my soul with a quiet yearning
For the calm of eternity.

“Autumnal Elegiac” by Josiah D. Canning

Autumnal Elegiac.
By the “Peasant-Bard”
From the Knickerbocker, Volume 49, January, 1857, pg. 30.

THE vane points south. Damp blows the gale,
From off towards ocean’s misty waste;
Aloft the rainy signals sail,
And on their stormy mission haste
I stand and hear the roaring blast,
And see the wild rack drifting fast;
And watch on Unadilla’s* braes,
Where late the summer sun did smile,
The marching mist, and scudding haze,
Like spectral rank and file!
There go the hopeful hours of Spring,
There Summer’s more exalted pride,
In autumn glooms evanishing
By mournful Unadilla’s side.
And other phantoms, too, I see,
Of perished objects, dear to me;
Once seen, like flowers of smiling spring.
Now all on memory devolves;
While in the blast all hollow sing
The ghosts of good resolves.

O buried time! O vain regrets!
Yon visioned, gloomed, autumnal strife,
Minds me how fast towards autumn sets
My own bright summer bark of life!
Yes, voyager to the unknown shore,
No anchor holds that you throw o’er.
Affection’s bower, e’en Love’s strong sheet,
Cannot the forward tide withstand.
Blest Hope! keep watch; thy cry is sweet:
Land ho! the ‘Better Land!’

Gill, (Mass.,) Oct. 4th.

*The name of the stream flowing through the farm of the writer, sacred to mournful memories.