Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eyes, —
Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!
Ode on Adversity
Ode on Adversity By Mary Darby Robinson WHERE o'er my head, the deaf'ning Tempest blew, And Night's cold lamp cast forth a feeble ray; Where o'er the woodlands, vivid light'nings flew, Cleft the strong oak, and scorch'd the blossom'd spray; At morn's approach, I mark...
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