The airs of Spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the Autumn morn;—
Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look
Through fringèd lids to Heaven,
And the pale Aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;—
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south-wind softly sigh;