The Autumn Fan

O fair white silk, fresh from the weaver's loom,
Clear as the frost, bright as the winter snow —
See! friendship fashions out of thee a fan.
Round as the round moon shines in heaven above;
At home, abroad, a close companion thou,
Stirring at every move the grateful gale;
And yet I fear, ah me! that autumn chills.
Cooling the dying summer's torrid rage,
Will see thee laid neglected on the shelf.
All thought of by gone days, like them by-gone.