ONE morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play, The eastern gates of heaven were open laid, When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid, From her sweet eyes who shed a soften'd ray. Blushing and fair she was; and from the braid Of her gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay: Yet languid look'd and indolently stray'd A while, to watch the harvest borne away. But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale, With buskin'd legs, and quiver 'cross her flung, With hounds and horn she seeks the wood and vale, And Echo listens to her forest song. At eve, she flies to hear her poet's tale, And "AUTUMN's" name resounds his shades among. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE PORTRAIT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON AMORETTI: 19 by EDMUND SPENSER ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD QUATORZAINS: 11. A CLOCK STRIKING AT MIDNIGHT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES TO A DYING CLASS by ANGELO PHILIP BERTOCCI |