Autumn grows old: he, like some simple
In Summer's castaway is strangely clad;
Such withered things the winds in frolic mad
Shake from his feeble hand and forehead wan.
Autumn is sighing for his early gold,
And in his tremble dropping his remains;
The brook talks more, as one bereft of brains,
Who singeth loud, delirious with the cold.
O now with drowsy June one hour to be!
Scarce waking strength to hear the hum of bees,
Or cattle lowing under shady trees,
Knee-deep in waters loitering to the sea.
I would that drowsy June awhile were here,
The amorous South wind carrying all the vale- Save that white lily true
to star as pale,
Whose secret day-dream Phoebus burns to hear.