XIII
What bark impelled by autumn's fresh'ning gale
Comes speeding t'ward me?—'Tis the wild geese arriv'n
Across the fathomless expanse of Heav'n,
And lifting up their voices for a sail!
Anon.
XIV
Autumn
The silv'ry dewdrops that in autumn light
Upon the moors, must surely jewels be;
For there they hang all over hill and lea,
Strung on the threads the spiders weave so tight.
XV
Autumn
The trees and herbage, as the year doth wane,
For gold and russet leave their former hue—
All but the wave-toss'd flow'rets of the main,
That never yet chill autumn's empire knew.