Behold the rapture of autumnal souls,
The town dissolves like near illusions;
Behold the portals of the moonless night
Veiled in violet and orange-hues.
Princess, what did'st thou with the jeweled tiara.
O Jesus crowned with thorns, bleeding in every bruised heart.
Gooday mynher, gooday myffrau.
The hour of white cloud is cast o'er the plain,
Like reflections of blood, or flocks of wool,
O rose-colored sweet-heather, O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has paled o'er the plain,
The long slow veils of white wool fall,
O mauve-colored sweet-heather—O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has burst o'er the plain,
Gently the reeds sang under angered winds,
O red sweet-heather—O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has passed o'er the plain
So swiftly: its splendor has vanished.
O gold sweet-heather—O blood-colored sky.