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

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

And gain is gain, however small.

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearl'd; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in Hi…

Autumn is a second Spring when every leaf is a flower.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the so…