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William Wordsworth - September 1815
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WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature`s tuneful quire, this rustling dry                
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
`Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
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