Autumn.

The Year, an aged holy priest, In gorgeous vestments clad, Now celebrates the solemn feast Of Autumn, sweet and sad. The Sun, a contrite thurifer After his garish days, Through lessening arch, a wavy blur, His burnish'd censer sways. The Earth,—an altar all afire Her hecatombs to claim, Shoots upward many a golden spire And crimson tongue of flame. Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd In Midian's land to view The bush that unconsuming burn'd, I pause—and worship, too.