Autumn

The sobbing winds, with fitful swell and fall—
     The solemn woods, whose foliage hath been kissed
     By the Forst’s gelid lips—the gathered mist
Scudding athwart the sky—and over all
A sombre veil that seems a floating pall,
     Dim-seen yet palpable, beneath whose shade
     Earth’s greenness withers and her bright flowers fade—
These speak of thee, oh Autumn! Thou dost call
     Thy ministers around thee, and in scorn
     Of Summer’s beauty, all of Summer born—
Leaves, flowers, and fruits—are scattered on thy blast!
     Yet are thou welcome with thy frown severe,
     Thou bounteous “Almoner of the dying year!”
     For thou its treasures in Earth’s lap dost cast.