Autumn Lament

We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee, Far flung in distant lands and evil times. We cannot see The pallid stars above Ionian slopes Or know the mimes And their significance that thou hast known— The dried leaves blown In drear array among the autumn sheaves Are our distorted hopes. We cannot sing. Ah, now return again Singer and shepherd of the lonely past. Our autumn pain Is vanity; no immemorial things Are ours at last. Only the bitterness of harvest wind, Impetuously blind, And unimagined lyrics of despair Are ours in deficit of countless springs. LUCIUS BEEBE.