Here hid away from dust and heat, Secure from rude intrusion, While willing lips the thought repeat, So grows the fond illusion: That happiness the product is Of lazy, languid dozing, Of soft midsummer reveries, Half-waking, half-reposing.
And here in restful interlude, Life's fallacies forgetting, Its frailties--such a multitude-- The fuming and the fretting, Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew, The happy soul at even May walk abroad, and interview Bright messengers from Heaven.
The melody of autumn Is the only tune I know, And I sing it over and over Because it thrills me so; It stirs anew the happy wish, So near to perfect bliss, To live a little longer in A world like this.
The sound was never sweeter, The voice so nearly mute, As beauty, dying, loses Her hold upon the lute; And like the harmonies that touch And blend with those above, Forever must an echo wake The heart of love.
Her robe of brown and coral And amber glistens through Rare jewels of the morning, The opals of the dew, Like royal fabrics worn beneath The tinselry of pearls, Or diamond dust by fashion strewn On sunny curls.
If I could wrap such garments In true artistic style About myself departing, And wear as sweet a smile And be as guileless as the flowers My friends would never sigh; 'Twould reconcile them to my death To see me die.
And why should there be sorrow When dying is no more Than 'twixt two bright apartments The opening of a door Through which the freed, enraptured soul From this, a paradise, May pass to that supremely fair Beyond the skies?
Oh, 'twere not hard to finish When earth with tender grace Prepares for her dear children So sweet a resting place; And though in dissolution's throe The melody be riven, The song abruptly ended here Goes on in Heaven.
Of all the lovely blossoms That decorate the trees, And shower down their petals With every breath of breeze, There is nothing so sweet or fair to me As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.
A thousand shrubs and flow'rets Delicious pleasure bring, But beautiful Pomona Must be the queen of spring; And out of her flagon the peach and pear Their chalices fill with essence rare.
Oh, is it any wonder, Devoid of blight or flaw, The peerless blooms of Eden Our primal mother saw In redolent beauty before her placed So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?