A bold brunette she is, radiant with mirth,
Who comes a-tripping over corn-fields cropped;
Fruits and blown roses, from her full arms dropped,
Carpet her feet along the gladdened earth;

Around her brow glitters a careless crown
Of bronzed oak, and apple-leaves, and vine;
And russet-nuts and country berries twine
About her gleaming shoulders and loose gown.

Like grapes at vintage, where the ripe wine glows,
Glows so her sweet cheek, summer-touched but fair;
And, like grape-tendrils, all her wealth of hair,
Gold on a ground of brown, nods as she goes:

Grapes too, a-spirt, her brimming fingers bear,
A dainty winepress, pouring wet and warm
The crimson river over wrist and arm,
And on her lips—adding no crimson there!

Ah! golden autumn hours—fly not so fast!
Let the sweet Lady long with us delay;
The sunset makes the sun so wished-for,—stay!
Of three fair sisters—loveliest and the last!

But after laughter ever follows grief,
And Pleasure's sunshine brings its shadow Pain;
Even now begins the dreary time again,
The first dull patter of the first dead leaf.