The Earthly Paradise (September-November): September: Introduction

The Earthly Paradise, (September-November), by William Morris, [1870] O COME at last, to whom the spring-tide's hope Looked for through blossoms, what hast thou for me? Green grows the grass upon the dewy slope Beneath thy gold-hung, grey-leaved apple-tree Moveless, e’en as the autumn fain would be That shades its sad eyes from the rising sun And weeps at eve because the day is done. What vision wilt thou give me, autumn morn, To make thy pensive sweetness more complete? What tale, ne’er to be told, of folk unborn? What images of grey-clad damsels sweet Shall cross thy sward with dainty noiseless feet? What nameless shamefast longings made alive Soft-eyed September will thy sad heart give? Look long, O longing eyes, and look in vain! Strain idly, aching heart, and yet be wise, And hope no more for things to come again That thou beheldest once with careless eyes! Like a new-wakened man thou art, who tries To dream again the dream that made him glad When in his arms his loving love he had. p. 3 MID young September's fruit-trees next they met, With calm hearts, willing such things to forget As men had best forget; and certainly E’en such a day it was when this might be If e’er it might be; fair, without a cloud, Yet windless, so that a grey haze did shroud The bright blue; neither burning overmuch, Nor chill, the blood of those old folk to touch With fretful, restless memory of despair. Withal no promise of the fruitful year Seemed unfulfilled in that fair autumn-tide; The level ground along the river-side Was merry through the day with sounds of those Who gathered apples; o’er the stream arose The northward-looking slopes where the swine ranged Over the fields that hook and scythe had changed Since the last month; but ’twixt the tree-boles grey Above them did they see the terraced way, And over that the vine-stocks, row on row, Whose dusty leaves, well thinned and yellowing now, But little hid the bright-bloomed vine-bunches. There day-long ’neath the shadows of the trees Those elders sat; chary of speech they were, For good it seemed to watch the young folk there, Not so much busied with their harvesting, p. 4 But o’er their baskets they might stop to sing; Nor for the end of labour all so fain But eyes of men from eyes of maids might gain Some look desired. So at the midday those Who played with labour in the deep green close Stinted their gathering for a while to eat; Then to the elders did it seem most meet Amidst of these to set forth what they might Of lore remembered, and to let the night Bury its own dead thoughts with wine and sleep; So while the loitering autumn sun did creep O’er flower-crowned heads, and past sweet eyes of grey, And eager lips, and fresh round limbs that lay Amid the golden fruit—fruit sweet and fair Themselves, that happy days and love did bear And life unburdened—while the failing sun Drew up the light clouds, was this tale begun, Sad, but not sad enow to load the yoke, E’en by a feather's weight, of those old folk. Sad, and believed but for its sweetness' sake By the young folk, desiring not to break The spell that sorrow's image cast on them, As dreamlike she went past with fluttering hem.