Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild,
Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green;
The summer flowers are withered, save a few
Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door,
That linger, relics of the roseate band,
Till icy winter, wandering from the pole,
Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills.
Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky,
The sun at evening shines with tempered heat,
The solitary flicker bores the tree—