I cried—'Shall the winter-leaves fret us?'
Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit,
To the freshness and force of the fruit!
To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us—
Her music that never grows mute
(That maunders but never grows mute),
The tendrils the vine branches net us,
The lily, the lettuce, the lute—
The esculent, succulent lettuce,
And the languishing lily, and lute;—