TO still September comes a dream of joy: The breath of dying roses in the calm And sultry air, seems changed to hyacinth-balm; Fresh beams and breezes waken, such as toy With amorous wind-flowers and May-lilies coy: Raise, oh ye birds, a wild conjubilant psalm! Autumn has reached the goal, has gained the palm, And Winter comes not surely to destroy. Nay, prosperous Autumn! not for thee shall ope May's blossoms; nor for thy dull ear shall sing Her choir of birds; thine own winds whirl away Thy golden vapours, and thy rich decay, Till Winter come, stern pioneer of Spring, Renewing Earth by terror and by hope. |