Written
in
Autumn
.
O
AUTUMN
!
how
I
love
thy
pensive
air
,
Thy
yellow
garb
,
thy
visage
sad
and
dun
!
When
from
the
misty
east
the
labouring
Sun
Bursts
through
thy
fogs
,
that
gathering
round
him
,
dare
Obscure
his
beams
,
which
,
though
enfeebled
,
dart
On
the
cold
,
dewy
plains
a
lustre
bright
:
But
chief
,
the
sounds
of
thy
reft
woods
delight
;
Their
deep
,
low
murmurs
to
my
soul
impart
A
solemn
stillness
,
while
they
seem
to
speak
Of
Spring
,
of
Summer
now
for
ever
past
,
Of
drear
,
approaching
Winter
,
and
the
blast
Which
shall
ere
long
their
soothing
quiet
break
:
Here
,
when
for
faded
joys
my
heaving
breast
Throbs
with
vain
pangs
,
here
will
I
love
to
rest
.