The Autumn Walk

I walk through the golden autumn wood
When the leaves are in their decay:
And my heart leaps into its solemn mood
As they wither and drop away.
.

For I think that this life of ours is a tree,
And the leaves are each fresh green hope,
That we keep like the dream of the good to be
For the blossoms that yet will ope.
.

And I know that the years are the slow sure frost
That will nip with a bitter breath
The sweet green buds, till their bloom be lost
In a shadow like that of death.
.

Then woe unto him that, when thus bereft,
And the drear cold gust hath pas'd,
Looks within and can see no leaflet left
That might gladden his eyes at last.
.

What comfort will lie in the claspèd hands,
In the look of doubt and woe,
While the heart in its own deep shadow stands
Looking down at its leaves below?
.

Ah, no! like the tree that I stand beneath,
That, though wither'd, and black, and bare,
Still keeps one leaf that hath stood the breath
Of the cold and unkindly air:
.

May I thus so stand when my heart pours down
Its leaves all sear'd and dry,
Keeping still one leaf though the rest be flown,
And that leaf—my hope on high.
.
Alexander Anderson