Autumn

The softest shadows mantle o'er his form,
And the curved sickle in his grasp appears,
Glooming and brightening; while a wreath of ears
Circles his sallow brow, which th' angry storm
Gusts down at intervals; about him stray
The volant sweets o' the trailing mignonette,
And odours vague, that haunt the year's decay;
The crush of leaves is heard beneath his feet,
Mixt, as he onward goes, with softer sound,
As tho' his heel were sinking into snows:
Full soon a sadder landscape opens round,
With, here and there, a latter-flowering rose,
Child of the Summer hours, though blooming here
Far down the vista of the fading year.