No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, 
The meadows are as stirless as the sky, 
Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie 
Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. 
The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, 
Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, 
As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, 
On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves. 

There is a pathos in his softening glow, 
Which like a benediction seems to hover 
O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below 
And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, 
A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow, 
While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.