Meet for the handmaid of the dying year.
But ah! thou art a sad coquette, although
The frost of age is on thee! Thou dost sport
With every idle breeze that wooeth thee;
And toy and frolick with the aged leaves
That flutter round thee; and unto the low,
Soft murmur of the brooklet, thou dost lend
A willing ear; and crowning thy pale brow
With a bright coronet, that thou hast woven
Of the stray sunbeams summer left behind.