Lament Of The Winds
We in sorrow coldly witting,
In the bleak world sitting, sitting,
By the forest, near the mould,
Heard the summer calling, calling,
Through the dead leaves falling, falling,
That her life grew faint and old.
And we took her up, and bore her,
With the leaves that moaned before her,
To the holy forest bowers,
Where the trees were dense and serried,
And her corpse we buried, buried,
In the graveyard of the flowers.
Now the leaves, as death grows vaster,
Yellowing deeper, dropping faster,
All the grave wherein she
With their bodies cover, cover,
With their hearts that love her, love her,
For they live not when she dies:
And we left her so, but stay
Of our tears, and yet we may not,
Though they coldly thickly fall,
Give the dead leaves any, any,
For they lie so many, many,
That we cannot weep for all.
Archibald Lampman
Other author posts
In October
Along the waste, a great way off, the pines, Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and The low long strip of dolorous red that The under west, where wet winds moan afar
In November 2
With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky, I wandered in the woods, and found A clearing, where the broken ground Was scattered with black stumps and briers, And the old wreck of forest fires It was a bleak and sandy spo...
Between The Rapids
The point is turned; the twilight shadow The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore, And on our ears from deep among the Breaks now the rapid's sudden quickening roar
Forest Moods
There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods, In the heart of the listening solitudes, Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few, And all the notes of their throats are true
