When, with low moanings on the distant shore, <br /> Like vain regrets, the ocean-tide is rolled: <br /> When, thro' bare boughs, the tale of death is told <br />By breezes sighing, "Summer days are o'er"; <br />When all the days we loved -- the days of yore -- <br /> Lie in their vaults, dead Kings who ruled of old -- <br /> Unrobed and sceptreless, uncrowned with gold, <br />Conquered, and to be crowned, ah! never more. <br /> <br />If o'er the bare fields, cold and whitening <br /> With the first snow-flakes, I should see thy form, <br />And meet and kiss thee, that were enough of Spring; <br /> Enough of sunshine, could I feel the warm <br />Glad beating of thy heart 'neath Winter's wing, <br /> Tho' Earth were full of whirlwind and of storm.<br /><br />David MacDonald Ross<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-27/
