When, I wonder, shall I meet her,
As I wander through the woodland,
Meet the pensive maiden Autumn,
With the eyes that look afar?
I would welcome her and greet her,
Gladly turn to her from Summer,
As we leave the garish daylight
For a single pallid star.
She is tranquil, deeply quiet,
With a graceful, even moving;
And a benison of silence
Falls about her where she goes.
Wanton Summer was a-riot
With impassioned song and blossom,
Gay with glory, heartless ever,
With a thorn for every rose.
I shall meet the Autumn maiden—
Here are signs that she is near me:
On the hills a gauzy azure
From her veil in gliding by;
And her golden-rod is laden—
Yellow plumes of starry masses—
And the white, the purple asters
For her coming footfall sigh.
Yet I feel a half regretting
For that lavish June-time sunlight,
Every hour attuned to warbling,
And with bee and blossom rife.—
Hie away, and speed forgetting!
I will seek my Autumn maiden.
Wayward Summer is our dreaming;
Sober Autumn—is our life.
