To Autumn.

Come, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds, and storms, And falling leaves, and pastures lost to flowers; A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms, More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours, Who, in her blooming uniform of green, Delights with samely and continued joy: But give me, Autumn, where thy hand hath been, For there is wildness that can never cloy, - The russet hue of fields left bare, and all The tints of leaves and blossoms ere they fall. In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes, Wild music softens in thy hollow winds; And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms, That's more than dear to melancholy minds.