Richard Wilton (1827–1903)

(October 18th)

WHEN slowly sinks the fading year,

And early falls the shortening day,

There comes a season crisp and clear,

And decked in beautiful array:

The redbreast sings from the red spray

A song contented and serene;

And smiling to its artless lay

The Summer of Saint Luke is seen!

A painter was Saint Luke, I hear,

And I believe ’tis as they say;

Such colours gleam from tree and mere,

Such rainbow hues around us play:

They flash on us by wood and way,

Crimson and orange, brown and green;

O’er hill and dale, where’er we stray,

The Summer of Saint Luke is seen!

Physician, too, devout and dear,

So holy books our Saint portray:

And such he doth e’en now appear,

Touching our hearts with healing ray:

He drives depressing thoughts away,

And where dull mists and rains have been.

Lo, brightness comes and sunbeams stay—

The Summer of Saint Luke is seen!

Friend, art thou withered, old, and grey?

Not always shalt thou droop, I ween:

Heaven respite sends thee, if thou pray—

The Summer of Saint Luke is seen!