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;—
Yes;—the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce;
Late lily and lingering lute.
“Then come—let us fly from the city!