Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.

An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books.

Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired-

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

The world's great day is growing late, Yet strange these fields that we have planted So long with crops of love and hate.

One only leaf upon the top of a tree - the sole remaining leaf - danced round and round like a rag blown by the wind.