Quiet transmuter of Spring's vernant wealth
To slight, down-fluttering flakes of crispèd gold,
Linger awhile amid such glowing spilth,
In shivering woodland, over windy wold;
Ere, like a woman sad past hope of tears,
Who wends along the dull and weary way
That opens through her few remaining years,
Wimpled and clad in weed of cheerless grey,
Thou lapse, mist-girt, from day to short-lived day,
Sped by the rain-filled blast's chill clammy breath,
O'er plashy roads reddened with leafy clay
Till Winter crowns the enfeebled year with d**h—
Then, down the vista of the departed years,
Join shadowy seasons shedding unheeded tears.