The poets have made Autumn sorrowful;
I find her joyous, radiant, serene.
Her pomp is hung in a deep azure sky
That turns about the world by day and night,
Nor loses its bright charm.
And when the trees resign their foliage,
Loosing their leaves upon the cradling air
As liberally as if they ne'er had owned them,—
They show the richer for the nakedness
That weds them with the clarity of heav'n.