She walks with the wind in the windy wood; The dark rain drips from her hair and hood, And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued, “O my children, come home!” Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear, The owl and the fox crouch back in fear, As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-- “O my children, come home, come home! O my children, come home!”
Who is she who shudders by When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly? Who walks all night with her wailing cry, “O my children, come home!” Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue, With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung, Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-- “O my children, come home, come home! O my children, come home!”
’Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees, The mother of Death and of Mysteries, Who cries on the wind all night to these, “O my children, come home!” The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain, Calling her children home again, Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-- “O my children, come home, come home! O my children, come home!”
Do you know the way that goes Over fields of rue and rose,-- Warm of scent and hot of hue, Roofed with heaven’s bluest blue,-- To the Vale of Dreams Come True?
Do you know the path that twines, Banked with elder bosks and vines, Under boughs that shade a stream, Hurrying, crystal as a gleam, To the Hills of Love a-Dream?
Tell me, tell me, have you gone Through the fields and woods of dawn, Meadowlands and trees that roll, Great of grass and huge of bole, To the Land of Hearts Made Whole?
On the way, among the fields, Poppies lift vermilion shields, In whose hearts the golden Noon, Murmuring her drowsy tune, Rocks the sleepy bees that croon.
On the way, amid the woods, Mandrakes muster multitudes, ’Mid whose blossoms, white as tusk, Glides the glimmering Forest-Dusk, With her moths of fluttering musk.
Here you hear the stealthy stir Of shy lives of hoof and fur; Harmless things that hide and peer, Hearts that sucked the milk of fear-- Fox and rabbit, squirrel and deer.
Here you see the mossy flight Of faint forms that love the night-- Whippoorwill and owlet-things, Whose weird call before you brings Wonder-worlds of happenings.
Now in sunlight, now in shade, Water, like a brandished blade, Foaming forward, wild of flight, Startles, then arrests the sight, Whirling steely loops of light.