Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night:
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue–blue–as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone
When woods are bare and birds have flown,
And frost and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.–Bryant.
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