See the purple vetches climb
⁠Through the lush green grasses;
Hear the bluebell's fairy chime
⁠As the light wind passes;
The poppy, like a scarlet flame,
⁠By snowy starwort blazes;
The buttercup its golden head
⁠By rosy campion raises;
The bramble in its lavish bloom
⁠A fruitful future pledges;
The elder's glossy berries droop
⁠O'er the autumn hedges.

The bindweed flings her graceful wreath
⁠Where soft green nuts are darkening;
The fern-leaves bow their lovely fronds,
⁠The thrushes' gurgle hearkening;
There the tall campanula
⁠Its lilac bloom is showing;
Subtle fragrance tells us where
⁠The purple clover's blowing;
Soft and hoar, the briony
⁠Hangs from rocky ledges,
Where tansy's rugged royalty
⁠Rules the autumn hedges.

The lordly foxgloves, side by side,
⁠Guard the creeping mosses;
The thistle to the wooing air
⁠Its thorny circlets tosses;
The crowsfoot glitters like a gem
⁠Where golden-rod waves thickest.
Where the orchis studs the green,
⁠Where moneywort runs quickest;
The rush-flower and the yellow flag
⁠Bloom amid the sedges.
Where the bonny becks dance down
⁠By the autumn hedges.

With a beauty all his own
⁠Reigns winter, keen and hoary;
Sweet the springtide's vivid smile.
⁠Sweet the summer's glory;
But the autumn's bounteous hand.
⁠In the cloudless weather.
Brings flower, fruit, and harvest-home
⁠To the world together.
So lovely dreams, bard-born in May,
⁠A brooding fancy fledges
To life as lavish, rich, and bright
⁠As glows in autumn hedges.

Go, heart of mine, and hasten to my love;
⁠Tell her I mourn throughout the slow, sad hours.
⁠And that I wander through forsaken bowers
Like some disconsolate and widowed dove,
⁠Who, being once forsaken of her mate,
⁠Doth wander ever after desolate.

Go, heart of mine, and tremble in her breast;
⁠Tell her that I am like the winds that scour
⁠O'er hill and dale, that leafy woods deflower,
And meadows many-hued, yet find no rest.
⁠But, making moan which never doth abate,
⁠Do wander up and down disconsolate.

Go, heart of mine, and whisper in her ear
⁠That I am like a tree no longer green.
⁠Where winter's barrenness may be foreseen
In branch and bough, by autumn's touch made sere;
⁠And like the leaves which rough winds violate.
⁠The days from off my life drop desolate.

And if that move her not, go, kiss each lip,
⁠And tell her that I can no longer live,
⁠Unless she come again to me, and give
Her sweet and ever-constant fellowship.
⁠And from her lips thou shalt not separate
⁠Until she swear to be compassionate.

Let me count up the songs of life that we
⁠Have sung together from the first till now:
The simple baby-rhymes of bird and bee,
⁠Of sun and star, of stream and blossom-bough.
The deeper music of our youth's new song,
⁠In days when life looked wonderfully fair;
When hearts were daring, pulses quick and strong.
⁠When woe was not, and joy was everywhere.
The wilder strain of passion, smiles and tears,
⁠When love awoke with power to slay or save;
The calmer melody of graver years,
⁠In minor key, like music by a grave.
And now we have another song to learn,
⁠'Tis written for us, we but wait our turn.

I often think this unseen, unsung song.
⁠With all its strangeness, will have notes we know;
And we shall hear its awful chords among
⁠The mingled music of our long ago.
The simple snatches of our baby-rhymes;
⁠The thrilling bars of youth's triumphant strain;
The peals of melody, like wedding chimes.
⁠That bring our summer love-song back again.
It may be this new song is hard to sing,
⁠But shall we grudge to learn it, who have grown
Tired and voiceless in earth's carolling,
⁠Yet fain would have some melody our own?
And, though it is the song of death, we know
⁠That, singing it, to endless life we go.