Besides the Autumn poets sing

A few incisive Mornings —

A few Ascetic Eves —

Gone — Mr. Bryant's "Golden Rod" —

And Mr. Thomson's "sheaves."

Still, is the bustle in the Brook —

Sealed are the spicy valves —

Mesmeric fingers softly touch

The Eyes of many Elves —

Perhaps a squirrel may remain —

My sentiments to share —

Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind —

Thy windy will to bear!