The Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers

The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The Sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins
Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head

The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load