English poem
A November Nocturne [1]
by F. V. N. Painter (1852–1931)
The autumn air sweeps faint and chill Across the maple-crested hill; And on my ear Falls, tingling clear, A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill.
From utmost twig, from scarlet crown Untouched with yet a tinct of brown, Reluctant, slow, As loath to go, The loosened leaves come wavering down;
And not a hectic trembler there, In its decadence, doomed to share The fate of all,-- But in its fall Flings something sob-like on the air.
No drift or dream of passing bell, Dying afar in twilight dell, Hath any heard, Whose chimes have stirred More yearning pathos of farewell.
A silent shiver as of pain, Goes quivering through each sapless vein; And there are moans, Whose undertones Are sad as midnight autumn rain.
Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh, No lightest, clinging leaf can die,-- Let him who saith Decay and death Should bring no heart-break, tell me why.
Each graveyard gives the answer: there I read Resurgam everywhere, So easy said Above the dead-- So weak to anodyne despair.