The loveliest things of Autumn’s pack
In his mottled coffers lay:
Red mountain-berries,
Hips sweet as cherries,
Sloes blue and black
He hung upon every spray.
On the top of the hills in the West stood the Prince of Autumn and surveyed the land with his serious eyes.
His hair and beard were dashed with grey and there were wrinkles on his forehead. But he was good to look at still and straight and strong. His splendid cloak gleamed red and green and brown and yellow and flapped in the wind. In his hand he held his horn.
He smiled sadly and stood a while and listened to the fighting and the singing and the cries. Then he raised his head, put the horn to his mouth and blew a lusty flourish:
Summer goes his all-prospering way,