42.
With sullen thoughts in chilly bosom cherish’d,
I travel sullen through the world so cold;
The autumn’s end hath come, a humid mist doth hold
Deep veil’d from sight the country drear and perish’d.
The winds are piping, hither, thither bending
The red-tinged leaves, that from the trees fall fast,
The bare plain steams, the wood sighs ’neath the blast,
The worst of all comes next—the rain’s descending!