Autumn Regrets / Paul Bewsher

Autumn Regrets

That I were Keats! And with a golden pen
    Could for all time preserve these golden days
In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,
    Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze
With silent joy upon sweet Autumn's face,
And not record in any wise its grace!
    Alas! But I am even dumb as they –
    I cannot bid the fleeting hours stay,
Nor chain one moment on a page's space.

That I were Grieg! Then, with a haunting air
    Of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains
Would I express my love of Autumn fair
    With all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains:
And with fantastic melodies inspire
A memory of each mad sunset's fire
    In which the day goes slowly to its death
    As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath
Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir.

That I were Corot! Then September's gold
    Would I store up in painted treasuries
That, when the world seemed grey I could behold –
    Its blazing colour with sweet memories,
And each elusive colour would be mine
That decorates these afternoons benign.
    Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue
    Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue
Of sky and haze, with genius divine.

How sad these wishes! When I have no art
    Of poetry, or music, or of brush,
With which to calm the swelling of my heart
    By capturing the misty country's hush
In muted violins; I cannot hymn
The shadowy silence of the copses dim;
    Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.
    Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,
When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!

~~
Paul Bewsher (1894-1966)
from The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator, 1917

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Paul Bewsher biography