Paul Hamilton Hayne

The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow

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 scrolls,

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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