SUMMER Has Gone,




And fruitful autumn has advanced so far

That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun,

And you may look, with naked eye, upon

The ardors of his car;

The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden,

Are making the green leaves golden.

What a brave splendor

Is in the October air! How rich; and clear,

And bracing, and all joyous! We must render

Love to the spring-time, with its sproutings tender,

As to a child quite dear;

But autumn is a thing of perfect glory,

A manhood not yet hoary.

I love the woods,

In this good season of the liberal year;

I love to seek their leafy solitudes,

And give myself to melancholy moods,

With no intruder near,

And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder,

In every natural wonder.