While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields,
With ripening harvests prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware,
And whispers to the silent birds, “Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.”
For me, who, under kindlier laws, belong
To Nature’s tuneful choir, this rustling dry,