Spilled Sunshine




Autumn Song


Autumn clouds are flying, flying,
O’er the waste of blue.
Summer flowers are dying, dying,
Late so lovely new.
Laboring trains are slowly rolling
Home with winter grain;
Holy bells are slowly toiling
Over buried men.

Goldener lights set noon asleeping
Like an afternoon;
Colder airs come stealing, creeping
After sun and moon;
And the leaves all tired of blowing,
Cloud-like o’er the sun,
Change to sunset colors, knowing
That their day is done.

Autumn’s sun is sinking, sinking
Into winter’s night;
And our hearts are thinking, thinking
Of the cold and blight.
Our life’s sun is slowly going.
Down the hill of night;
Will our clouds shine golden-glowing
On the slope of night.

But the vanished corn is lying
In rich golden glooms.
In the churchyard all the sighing
Is above the tombs.
Spring will come, slow-lingering
Opening buds of faith.
Man goes forth to meet his spring
Through the door of death.


So we love with no less loving,
Hair that turns to gray ;
Or a step less lightly moving,
In life’s autumn day.
And if thought, still-brooding, lingers
O’er each bygone thing,
‘Tis because old autumn’s fingers
Paint in hues of spring.

Autumn Song by George MacDonald

: : from the archives, first published October 24, 2009