Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,

They have no strength to rise again.

How swift the trees, their mistress gone,

Enrobe themselves for revelry!

Ungovernable winds upon

The wold are dancing merrily.

With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,

And whirling leaves and flushing streams,

The spirit of September cuts

Adrift from August’s languid dreams.

A little while the revellers

Shall flame and flaunt and have their day,

And then will come the messengers

Who travel on a cloudy way.{27}

{27}

And after them a form of light,

A sense of iron in the air,

Upon the pulse a touch of might

And winter’s legions everywhere.

{28}

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