Bramble Brae In October

And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae, And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray; The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown, Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the light And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown. Along the lane the quail are running in fright At sound of guns on the upland--the cautious dogs Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men Watch for the whir of wings; the hickory logs Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough; In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels cough And chatter and screech--chasing each other from limb To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees. And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him Glows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze. Down in the valley the ancient village rests, Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street; High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crests Are carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet, Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth; For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad, And sometimes rich in the wealth of truth That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad. For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl Except for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine, Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearl She seeks is love, and only love is the wine That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day That love and his lady are proof against all surprise-- So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.

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Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there; Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees; Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care-- The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze. Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill-- Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled; Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill, Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead. Years has he wandered over the land and sea; Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved; Always that vision haunted his fancy free-- The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved. Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep, Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom; Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deep Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.