All nature in her dishabille appears;
Contracted flow’rets yield no sweet perfume,
And ev’ry grove a dismal aspect wears.
Nor do the joys of Autumn glad our plains;
Our landscapes are in sable weeds array’d;
No jocund sound is heard among the swains,
And nought but sighs from each dejected maid.
Rude Eurus echoing through the distant woods,
With harsh, discordant note, augments our wo;
While rains, impetuous, from the bursting clouds,