Spring's wildest promise in Love's fulness sealing.
AUTUMN.
Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully,
Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast,
With wailing voice of saddest augury,
Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest.
With icy finger on each yellow leaf
Writes he the history of the dying year.
Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf—