September 1815
While not a leaf seems faded,—while the fields,
With ripening harvests prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask,—this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scymetar, 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 the green leaves, 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.