With fresh impatience, o’er and o’er,
I count the hours;—yet still am fain
To tell them over once again.
O hasten, hasten, autumn days!
Sear swift this dewy, summer green!
I am grown weary with delays;
Speed! Speed!
Bring bitter winds and chill, nor heed
The mellow sweets between!
What if the dead leaves strew the ways,