To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain&egrave;d<br>
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit<br>
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,<br>
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,<br>
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!<br>
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.<br>
“The narrow bud opens her beauties to<br>
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;<br>
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and<br>
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,<br>
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,<br>
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.<br>
“The spirits of the air live in the smells<br>
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round<br>
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”<br>
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,<br>
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak<br>
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.