September 1815

WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,

With ripening harvest prodigally fair,

In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields

His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields

Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;

And whispers to the silent birds, 'Prepare

Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.'

For me, who under kindlier laws belong

To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry

Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,

Announce a season potent to renew,

'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,

And nobler cares than listless summer knew.