Aye, thou art welcome, heaven's delicions breath!
When woods begin to weear the crimson leaf,
And the suns grow meek, and the meeks suns gro brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks,
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
William Cullen Bryant (1794 -- 1878)
Posted by rbowen at October 5, 2003 11:05 AM | TrackBack