Music, and Other Poems

AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN

     When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
                 Makes its mark
     On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
                 Over fallen leaves;
     Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
                 Through the toil
     Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
                 Whispers in its sleep.

     'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
                 Where the box
     Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
                 There's a voice that talks
     Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
                 Year by year,—
     Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,
                 Fading as the flowers.

     Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;
                 But relief
     For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
                 From the Long-Ago,
     When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
                 To resign,
     And remember that the sadness of the fall
                 Comes alike to all.

     What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!
                 And what prayers
     For the silent strength that nerves us to endure
                 Things we cannot cure!
     Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
                 I have traced
     All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
                 Comfort in my mind.

     Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
                 Yet how near
     Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
                 Of the human race!
     Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,
                 Not apart!
     They who know the sorrows other lives have known
                 Never walk alone.

     October, 1903.