With the countless tints of autumn warm:
In ev'ry hue that can o'er thee fall;
And lovely, lovely thou art in all.
The Rhine!—That little word will be
For aye a spell of power to me,
And conjure up, in care's despite,
A thousand visions of delight.
The Rhine! O where beneath the sun
Doth that fair river's rival run?
Where dawns the day upon a stream,