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Whose array is chill, and dark, and dim—
It irked his sight,
And he longed to hold
His stern, harsh, cold
Dominion o'er all the shivering land,
And grasp it tight in his frosty hand.
He threw o'er the earth a wrathful look;
The Sun grew pale, and the strong trees shook,
At the icy glance of his withering eye;
And then his loud voice came rushing by,
Calling to Autumn; he bade her fling
Prone to the earth each verdant thing
That bloomed in the path of the cold Ice-king.
"Thy reign is o'er"—he sternly cried,
"Passing away are thy power and pride,
Thy golden throne
Is carried away from the bare hill-side;
Thy flowers all flown
From field, wood, moorland, garden, and lea,
Then yield up thy desolate realm to me.
Yet, ere thou go
Shake the last brown leaves from the forest tree,
And lay them low;
Lay them low, as a carpet spread
On the mossy ground—
Strew them around,
Beneath my feet—not o'er my head;
