Ballad Of The Faded Field Poem by Robert Burns Wilson

BROAD bars of sunset-slanted gold
Are laid along the field, and here
The silence sings, as if some old
Refrain, that once rang long and clear,
Came softly, stealing to the ear
Without the aid of sound. The rill
Is voiceless, and the grass is sere,
But beauty’s soul abideth still.

Trance-like, the mellow air doth hold
The sorrow of the passing year;
The heart of Nature groweth cold,
The time of falling snow is near;
On phantom feet, which none may hear,
Creeps—with the shadow of the hill—
The semblance of departed cheer,
But beauty’s soul abideth still.

The dead, gray-clustered weeds enfold
The well-known summer path, and drear
The dusking hills, like billows rolled
Against the distant sky, appear.
From lonely haunts, where Night and Fear
Keep ghostly tryst, when mists are chill,
The dark pine lifts a jaggëd spear,
But beauty’s soul abideth still.

ENVOY

Dear love, the days that once were dear
May come no more; life may fulfill
Her fleeting dreams with many a tear,
But beauty’s soul abideth still.