Poems (Ford)/The Twilight of the Year

THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR.

The twilight of the year has come,
And Autumn's ruddy cheek
Is raised to meet the icy kiss
Of Winter, stern and bleak;
The flowers that, bright as angel smiles,
Beamed round us, disappear,
And coldly, sadly closes in
The twilight of the year.

Out in the solemn, shaded aisles
Of forests dark and dim,
In mournful cadence Nature chants
The year's sad vesper-hymn;
Her organis the moaning wind,—
Its notes so wild and drear,
Sighed through the falling leaves, proclaim
The twilight of the year.

In strains of grand, wild harmony
Her pealing anthem rolls;
Like voices from the silent dead
It thrills our listening souls;
It whispers of departed ones
That memory still holds dear,
Who in thy shadows fell asleep,
Sad twilight of the year.

Oh, moaning wind of Autumn, now
Thy voice with mournful wail
Sweeps many a dreary hill and plain
Where camp-fires glimmer pale,
Like waning stars seen through the gloom—
Where those our hearts hold dear
Are thinking of us as they watch
This twilight of the year.

Above the gory fields of strife
Where fell the true and brave,
Thy sad voice chants a requiem
O'er many a hero's grave;
But not yet o'er a Nation's tomb,
Nor Freedom's gory bier,
Is wrapped thy shroud of withered leaves,
Pale twilight of the year.

May He who paints the Autumn leaves,
And bids them fade and fall,
Whose bounteous hand is ever held
In mercy over all,
Send heaven-born peace, on angel wings,
Our hearts and homes to cheer,
And smile away the strife that clouds
This twilight of the year.

1862.