Fall

The summer-flower has run to seed, And yellow is the woodland bough; And every leaf of bush and weed Is tipt with autumn’s pencil now. And I do love the varied hue, And I do love the browning plain; And I do love each scene to view, That’s mark’d with beauties of her reign. The woodbine-trees red berries bear, That clustering hang upon the bower; While, fondly lingering here and there, Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower. The trees’ gay leaves are turned brown, By every little wind undress’d; And as they flap and whistle down, We see the birds’ deserted nest. No thrush or blackbird meets the eye, Or fills the ear with summer’s strain; They but dart out for worm and fly, Then silent seek their rest again.......