The solemn fires are lit again
Upon the mountain's altar-places;
They rise above the kneeling plain,
And front us with unchanged faces.
The holy time of all the year
In silent worship there is flowing;
The autumn festival is near,
The bright October days are going.
Their tokens shine along the steep
Where every breeze is shaken splendor,
And where the sunshine lies asleep
On leaves with valley-shadows tender,
Into October's vintage cup
The last and richest wine is flowing;
And while the draught is brimming up
The bright autumnal days are going.
And but that every year doth hold
Its summers by a winter parted,
And every fiery autumn fold
A death beneath it, frosty-hearted,
Too perfect were these crowning days--
So rich the ebbing life is flowing:
Each dying in a sunset blaze,
The bright October days are going.
And in his royal robe and crown
The year awaits the spoiler hasting;
And scarce will lay his glory down
Before the foe whose touch is blasting.
Too few the golden days, alas!
So much with them is outward flowing;
They take the sunshine as they pass--
These bright October days, in going.
