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The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves,
And most of them had fallen; some remained,
But they were yellow, and the footstalks small
So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch;
But the bright luscious-looking berries hung
In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe,
And tempting e'en to those who know their bale,
Much more to childish lips!—yet those might find
A better treat upon a neighb'ring spray,
That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o'er,
Down from the hedge's top, its garland rough,
Bearing the loved Black-berries—though these now
Were "few and far between," and tasteless, too:
Yet frost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit,
Gives to the leaf strange beauty—tinting it
With every various hue, from healthy green
To sickliest yellow—and from that again
Through every soft and brilliant shade that 'longs
To flaming scarlet—richer crimson—brown,
In all its myriad grades—purple—and that
Dappled again with black. Oh! I have culled
An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed,
And, wondering, looked again upon them all,
Yet ne'er found one whose form of shade or hue
Resembled any other—all unlike;
And then the under surfaces of each
Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind,
And frost, and rain, did never come to them.
