To Autumn

    With the blood of the grape， pass not， but sit

    Beneath my shady roof； there thou may'st rest，

    And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe，

    And all the daughters of the year shall dance！

    Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

    `The narrow bud opens her beauties to

    The sun， and love runs in her thrilling veins；

    Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning， and

    Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve，

    Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing，

    And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

    `The spirits of the air live on the smells

    Of fruit； and Joy， with pinions light， roves round

    The gardens， or sits singing in the trees.'

    Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat；

    Then rose， girded himself， and o'er the bleak

    Hills fled from our sight； but left his golden load.