The twenty-fourth of August and no sun, Clouds veil her face, the skies of pewter made, Expectantly the earth in stillness lies And birds wait silently in the deep shade.
A light not wholly real pervades the land It seems the trick of an illusionist Or a secret energy content to work In the dense and palpable morning mist,
A settled atmosphere of deep reserve. The Spring of happy days is now behind And Summer's riot captivates the sense. Earth's final flowering is to my mind
The preface of regenerative sleep. Autumn's colours lead to Winter's rule And all our Springs are born from that white peace, The fallen leaf is but the blossom's fuel.
For man there is neither rest nor journey's end His greatness is assured, he cannot fall Though his past a stone that weighs the future down Bright are his dawns and the noons of splendour call.
Poems Undated (1727)
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