The Exile

Down the autumn ways that shine
With crimson leaf and verdant pine
Where all September’s gold in them
Seems radiant as Jerusalem—
Shall I away to where the spring
Of sister streamlets murmuring dream
Of summers when they held their glass
To daisies on their banks of grass?
Nay, I shall journey farther on
And leave their laughing, questing song
Where all the woodlands seem to say,
“Where, oh, where has thy Love gone away?”

“Lane in Autumn,” John Atkinson Grimshaw

© 2015 by Colin Harker. All rights reserved.

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2 responses to The Exile

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