Xi. An Autumn Morning

O what a morn is this for us who knew The large, blue, summer mornings, heaven let down Upon the earth for men to drink, the crown Of perfect human living, when we grew Great-hearted like the Gods! Come, we will strew White ashes on our hair, nor strive to drown In faint hymn to the year’s fulfilled renown The sterile grief which is the season’s due. Lightly above the vine-rows of rich hills Where the brown peasant girls move amid grapes The swallow glances; let him cry for glee! But yon pale mist diffused ’twixt paler shapes,-- Once sovereign trees,--my spirit also fills, And an east-wind comes moaning from the sea.