Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/127

 

I went from the park; and the meadows were sodden,
Roots lay there scattered, grown sere piece by piece;
The fallow-land waste, and the stubble untrodden,
Save by a flock of cackling geese.

But afar by the wood in a silvery haze,
Naught but a reaper was standing alone,
With a swing of his scythe,—not a sound did he raise,
The last of the yellow-hued ears he had mown.

And methought, as he mistily loomed in the brake,
That this was the autumn, that near to us drew,
Tears in the petals of asters to shake,
Cobwebs on every rafter to strew.

That the autumn it was, that on tip-toe drew nigh,
And lo! as the scythe he did flourish and bend,
Clearly I heard, from the sheaves came a sigh:
I am autumn and death and decay and the end.

The leaves, once more dying,
Are rustling and sighing.
Autumn has reached us on tip-toe tread,
The casket of old recollections he clasped,
And ribbons, and leaves that are withered he grasped;
But out of the heart, gold and purple have sped,
And the leaves there are dying,
And rustling and sighing.

 

"Bitter Seeds" (1889).