Autumn

I At my window sit, and see Autumn his russet fingers lay On every leaf of every tree, I call, but Summer will not stay.

She flies, the boasting Goddess flies, And, pointing where th' espaliers shoot, " Deserve my parting gift, she cries, " I take the leaves, but not the fruit."

Let me the parting gift improve, And emulate the just reply, As life's short seasons swift remove, Ere fix'd in winter's frost I lie.

Health, beauty, vigour, now decline, The pride of summer's splendid day, Leaves, which the stem must now resign, The mournful prelude of decay.

But let fair virtue's fruit remain, Tho' summer with my leaves be fled; Then, not despis'd, I'll not complain, But cherish autumn in her stead.