NOVEMBER, 1792.
There is strange music in the stirring wind
When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone
To the dark wood’s cold covert thou art gone,
Whose ancient trees on the rough slope-reclined
Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear.
If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
Thou late hast pass’d the happier hours of spring,
With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year;
Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn