The passionate Summer's dead! the sky's a-glow,
With roseate flushes of matured desire,
The winds at eve are musical and low,
As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls,
With gorgeous blazonry of pictured folds,
To celebrate the Summer's past renown;
Ah, me! how regally the Heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.