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! Westgate.