AUTUMN ON THE LAND

A man, a field, silence—what is there to say?

He lives, he moves, and the October day

Burns slowly down.

 History is made

Elsewhere; the hours forfeit to time's blade

Don't matter here. The leaves large and small,

Shed by the branches, unlamented fall

About his shoulders. You may look in vain

Through the eyes' window; on his meagre hearth

The thin, shy soul has not begun its reign

Over the darkness. Beauty, love and mirth

And joy are strangers there.

 You must revise

Your bland philosophy of nature, earth

Has of itself no power to make men wise.