———
————————For him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Akenside.
Season of fading glory! Oh how sad,
When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale,
Shaking the ripen’d nuts from loftiest bough,
And down the forest side and sylvan road
Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound.