Poems.
95
The sweets of summer lie scattered and dead,
Neglected, forgot, on the earth's cold bed.
Blow, winds, blow! the leaves fall fast,
For winter is near, and the summer's past.
Neglected, forgot, on the earth's cold bed.
Blow, winds, blow! the leaves fall fast,
For winter is near, and the summer's past.
The air hath lost its sweet perfume,
All nature is dressed in a garb of gloom;
The murmuring stream and the silent grove,
The whispering breeze and the voice of love,
The moon's mild beam, or the twilight hour,
The rustic grot, or the woodbine bower,
Attract no more the step of the maid,
Who loves at eve to rove the glade;
For the air is cold, the dews are chill,
Descending around her favorite hill.
Blow, winds, blow! the leaves fall fast,
For winter is near, and the summer 's past
All nature is dressed in a garb of gloom;
The murmuring stream and the silent grove,
The whispering breeze and the voice of love,
The moon's mild beam, or the twilight hour,
The rustic grot, or the woodbine bower,
Attract no more the step of the maid,
Who loves at eve to rove the glade;
For the air is cold, the dews are chill,
Descending around her favorite hill.
Blow, winds, blow! the leaves fall fast,
For winter is near, and the summer 's past
TO A FRIEND.
Say will you not for me, my friend,
Awake one plaintive strain,
Upon thy lyre's trembling chords,
That I may list again
To sweetest sounds from those lips of thine,
Speaking of joys of "Auld lang syne."
Awake one plaintive strain,
Upon thy lyre's trembling chords,
That I may list again
To sweetest sounds from those lips of thine,
Speaking of joys of "Auld lang syne."
