For the last time, he put his horn to his mouth and blew in sad and subdued tones:
Thou greenest plant and tardiest,
Thou fairest, rarest, hardiest,
Bright through unending hours!
Round Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring,
Thy vigorous embraces cling.
Look! Ivy mine, ’tis I who sing,
’Tis Autumn wins thy flowers!
Then he went away in the storm.