'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle cools
In ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.
An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,
The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;
While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,
Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.
He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)
Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;
Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay,
'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.