Old Autumn, thou art here! Upon the earth

And in the heavens the signs of death are hung;

For o’er the earth’s brown breast stalks pale decay,

And ’mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,

And sighing sadly, shout the solemn dirge,

O’er Summer’s fairest flowers, all faded now.

The winter god, descending from the skies,

Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows

With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath

Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth