A FRAGMENT <br /> <br />Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush <br />And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe <br />Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring, <br />And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,— <br />Farewell! 'T is now the sickness of the year, <br />Not to be medicined by the skillful hand. <br />Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold <br />Their predecessor's empire moulder from them; <br />While swift-increasing spreads the black domain <br />Of melancholy Night;—no more content <br />With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain <br />On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky. <br />Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve, <br />Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay; <br />And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, <br />His head on flowers, delicious languor feels <br />Creep in the blood. A different season now <br />Invites a different song. The naked trees <br />Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe; <br />Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away <br />From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains <br />To deck her bosom; Winter follows close, <br />Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath <br />Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all <br />Of grace and beauty from the falling year <br />Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir <br />Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged <br />With gold, and many a strong perennial plant, <br />Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks <br />Resign its honours to the infant blast. <br />This is the time, and these the solemn walks, <br />When inspiration rushes o'er the soul <br />Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.<br /><br />Anna Laetitia Barbauld<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-148/
