Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim
In lowly beauty constantly doth wear.
O'er yellow stubble lands, in mantle brown,
He wanders through the wan October light;
Still, as he goeth, slowly stripping down
The garlands green that were the Spring's delight.
At morn and eve thin silver vapours rise
Around his path; but sometimes at mid-day
He looks along the hills with gentle eyes,
That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay.