The orchards are yellow and solitary, The winds beat down their hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, The hum of the country is lonesome and weary, And the bees go by in bands To other happier lands. The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower; The orchards smell dank and rank As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour A corpse unclad in the taper's glower, Chill, white, and lank. So the bees go by in murmurous bands, Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands Where the lilies draggle the bank.
In the desolate halls are lying, Gold, blood-red, and browned, Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying, And the shadows o'er them flying Turn them 'round and 'round, Make a dreary sound Thro' the echoing chambers crying In the haunted house.
Gazing down in her white shroud From the edging cloud Comes at night the dimpled moon, Comes, and like a ghost is gone 'Neath the flying cloud O'er the haunted house.
What am I, and what is he Who can cull and tear a heart, As one might a rose for sport In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made All this love a bitter foam, Blown about a life of loam That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make Hollow crystal where his face Like a passion had its place Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers!-- But these weary eyes are dry, Tearless clear, and if I die They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps;--let it weep! Let it weep in sullen pain, And this anguish in my brain Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm, And yon fields are glad and fair; Many happy creatures there Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still, And the woodland stream is dark Where the lily rocks its barque Just below the mill.
If they found me icy there 'Mid the lilies and pale whorls Of the cresses in my curls Wet of raven hair--
Fool and coward! are you such? Would you have him thus to know That you died for utter woe And despair o'ermuch?
No! my face a marble bust! As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern!-- Passions hid, as in an urn, Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote, Making, with his worded scorn, Tyrant,--crowned with stinging thorn,-- His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and I Feel 'tis better for us twain: It may give you some small pain, But, 'twill soon be by.