I’d call it beautiful variety,
And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy
A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes
The yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the year
Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise
The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,
When January spreads a pall of snow
O’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.
Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,
And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends