The yellow Autumn, full has come! The helm
of Winter, crisp its crown canaried, singed
the sixth October morn, to red a realm
of berries born and bleeding. Huge and hinged,
its old and gilded gate, agape and gold,
releases forth its fresh and flowing dance-
the piping pied and plaided, clad and cold
release of glad and countless steps; a-trance
with such its tinctured touch, the mountains wide
with tree tops high, ignite in harkoned hurry!
About and blowing, leaved and laughing, pied
and pedaled, Autumn plays its fiddled fury.
The helm of Winter, clad with crimson mirth,
aloose and leaping, beckons beauty's birth.
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