Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The Field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;-hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play!

Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall.

O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain!

Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.

O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The liz…

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.