21The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May’s rejoicing train.Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These ’mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.Their notes thro’ all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
21The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May’s rejoicing train.Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These ’mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.Their notes thro’ all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May’s rejoicing train.Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These ’mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.Their notes thro’ all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May’s rejoicing train.Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These ’mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.Their notes thro’ all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May’s rejoicing train.
The birds that sing on autumn eves
Among the golden-tinted leaves,
Are but the few that true remain
Of budding May’s rejoicing train.
Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These ’mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.
Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,
And make their show when hope is lost,
These ’mong the fruits and mellow scent
Mourn not the high-sunned summer spent.
Their notes thro’ all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.
Their notes thro’ all the jocund spring
Were mixed in merry musicking:
They sang for love the whole day long,
But now their love is all for song.
Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:
Now each hath perfected his lay
To praise the year that hastes away:
They sit on boughs apart, and vie
In single songs and rich reply:
And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
And oft as in the copse I hear
These anthems of the dying year,
The passions, once her peace that stole,
With flattering love my heart console.