Autumn

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When, with low moanings on the distant shore,
  Like vain regrets, the ocean-tide is rolled:
  When, thro' bare boughs, the tale of death is told
By breezes sighing, "Summer days are o'er";
When all the days we loved - the days of yore -
  Lie in their vaults, dead Kings who ruled of old -
  Unrobed and sceptreless, uncrowned with gold,
Conquered, and to be crowned, ah! never more.

If o'er the bare fields, cold and whitening
  With the first snow-flakes, I should see thy form,
And meet and kiss thee, that were enough of Spring;
  Enough of sunshine, could I feel the warm
Glad beating of thy heart 'neath Winter's wing,
  Tho' Earth were full of whirlwind and of storm.

© David MacDonald Ross