To Autumn

    With the blood of the grape， pass not， but sit

    Beneath my shady roof； there thou may'st rest，

    And tune² 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 veins³；

    Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning， and

    Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve，

    Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth⁴ into singing，

    And feather'd clouds strew⁵ flowers round her head.

    `The spirits of the air live on the smells

    Of fruit； and Joy， with pinions⁶ 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 bleak⁷

    Hills fled from our sight； but left his golden load.