Paul Hamilton Hayne


THE passionate Summer's dead! the sky's a-glow,
  With roseate flushes of matured desire,
The winds at eve are musical and low,
  As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
  Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls,
With gorgeous blazonry of pictured folds,
  To celebrate the Summer's past renown;
  Ah, me! how regally the Heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
  And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
  That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
  To swell the purple pomp that floateth by. 

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