Didst ever note how pleasantly the sun of Autumn dies,
Leaving a gorgeous legacy upon the evening skies?
While quietly the gathering clouds, come trooping wave on wave,
To weave bright bowers, with blushing flowers, above the proud one’s grave.
Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace,
Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace;
Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright,
Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight.
And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies,
All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies;