  T THE last sweet flowers are dying, The last green leaves are red; The wild geese southward flying, By law mysterious led, Scream noisily o’erhead; The honey-bees have hived them, The butterflies have shrived them; All hushed the song and twitter And flutter of glad wing;— How could we bear the autumn If t’were not for the spring? To see the summer banished, Nor dare to bid her stay; To mourn o’er beauty vanished And joyance driven away; To mark the shortening day; The storm cloud and the raining; To see the frost lance stabbing Each faint and wounded thing;— Oh, we should hate the autumn Excepting for the spring! To know that life is failing And pulses beating slow; To catch the unavailing Sad monotones of woe All the earth over go; To know that snows must cover The grave of friend and lover, To hide them from the eyes and hands That still caress and cling;— The heart would break in autumn If there were not a spring! For every sleep a waking, For every shade a sun, A balm for each heart breaking, A rest for labor done, A life by death begun; And so in wintry weather, With smile and sigh together, We look beyond the present pain, The daily loss and sting, And welcome in the autumn For the sure hope of spring. |
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