Sweet are the woodland notes
That gush melodious at morn from palpitating throats,
In anthems fresh as dew! Ay, they are sweet!
But from that dim retreat
Where Evening muses through the pensive hours,
There sometimes floats along
A more appealing song.
So, love, thy voice breathes a diviner music in the chill
Of autumn, when the glen is still
And Flora's gold all tarnished on the hill,
Than in the time when merry May calls forth her bashful flowers.