The melancholy Autumn comes on us:
Not red and stormy; but in a shroud of rain,
Weeping for Summer fled. The fields lie bare;
The orchards stripped; the gardener's pride is o'er:
For all sweet-smelling flowers have lost their lives;
Geranium; heliotrope: Even the rose,
That was the queen of all the sunny year,—
She, in whose perfumed halls the wild bee lingered,
Lightening his toil with song,—is pale and dead!
So is't with us:—Our spring is blown and gone:
Our manly summer, o'er whose moments Love
Threw lustre like the morning, fades at last!