And the rich west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves.
Keats.
55. When Spring pours out his showers, as is his wont,
And bathes the breathing tresses of meek eve.
Collins.
56. Autumn skies, when all the woods are hung
With many tints, the fading livery
Of life, in which it mourns the coming storms