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Come, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds and storms

And falling leaves and pastures lost to flowers;

A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,

More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours,

Who in her blooming uniform of green

Delights with samely and continued joy:

But give me, Autumn, where thy hand hath been,

For there is wildness that can never cloy -

The russet hue of fields left bare, and all

The tints of leaves and blossoms ere they fall.

In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,

Wild music softens in thy hollow winds;

And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms

That's more than dear to melancholy minds.

John Clare(1793-1864)