IF while I sit flatter'd by this warm sun 
Death came to me, and kiss'd my mouth and brow, 
And eyelids which the warm light hovers through, 
I should not count it strange. Being half won 
By hours that with a tender sadness run, 
Who would not softly lean to lips which woo 
In the Earth's grave speech? Nor could it aught undo 
Of Nature's calm observances begun 
Still to be here the idle autumn day. 
Pale leaves would circle down, and lie unstirr'd 
Where'er they fell; the tir'd wind hither call 
Her gentle fellows; shining beetles stray 
Up their green courts; and only yon shy bird 
A little bolder grow ere evenfall.