To a Lady, VI

The Autumn wind—oh hear it howl! Without—October’s tempests scowl, As he troops away on the raving wind! And leaveth dry leaves in his path behind! Without—without, Oh hear him shout, He is making the old trees bare; Oh cruel, he, To the old oak tree, And the garden hedge so fair! Oh, a wild and tyrannous king is he, When he playeth his frolic in every tree, And maketh the forest bare!