“When first that precinct sacrosanct I trod
Autumn was there, but Autumn just begun;
Fronting the portals of a sinking sun,
The queen of quietude in vapor stood,
Her sceptre o’er the dimly-crimsoned wood
Resting in light. The year’s great work was done;
Summer had vanish’d, and repinings none
Troubled the pulse of thoughtful gratitude.
Wordsworth! the autumn of our English song
Art thou: ’twas thine our vesper psalms to sing: