AUTUMN

The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold,

And fair and bright the rivers run;

These are but streams of winter cold,

And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

In secret boughs no bird can shroud;

These are but leaves that take to wing,

And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

‘ Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms

That on the cheerless valleys fall,

The flowers are in their grassy tombs,

And tears of dew are on them all.