the autumn skies are flush’d with gold,

and fair and bright the rivers run;

these are but streams of winter cold,

and painted mists that quench the sun.

in secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

in secret boughs no bird can shroud;

these are but leaves that take to wing,

and wintry winds that pipe so loud.

’tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms

that on the cheerless valleys fall,

the flowers are in their grassy tombs,

and tears of dew are on them all.