There is a wistful charm, a tenderness, Mysterious and soft, in autumn's even: The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress, The gory leaves to whispered talk are given; Above the sad and orphaned earth the skies Lie veiled and bleak, the sun's departure mourning, And gusty winds with sudden anger rise, Of pending storms the grim and chilly warning... Fatigue, decline, and - over all - the worn And wasting spirit's smile, doomed soon to vanish, That lights a sufferer's face and that is born Of modesty, the godlike pride of anguish.