And autumn had saddened the meadow and wood;
The old locust grove, where the crows used to build,
The plowshare and harrow together had tilled.
Not a sprig of broomsedge did the hillside adorn,
But here and there stacked was the newly shocked corn.
Not a wild flower bloomed—through my heart ran a chill,
As I bowed by the spring at the foot of the hill.
No trickle of water fell soft on my ear—
Unless ’twas the sound of a swift falling tear—
For Time in his raving had paused here to drink,