I hear a voice low in the sunset woods: Listen; it says "Decay, decay, decay:" I hear it in the murmuring of the floods, And the wind sighs it as it flies away. Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes? Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod, Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod. The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade Wandering along, delicious music made. A flood of glory hangs upon the world, Summer's bright wings shining ere they are furl'd. |