WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, <br />With ripening harvest prodigally fair, <br />In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, <br />Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields <br />His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields <br />Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware; <br />And whispers to the silent birds, 'Prepare <br />Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.' <br />For me, who under kindlier laws belong <br />To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry <br />Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, <br />Announce a season potent to renew, <br />'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, <br />And nobler cares than listless summer knew.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/september-1815/
