But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks, And give the season in its latest view. Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether; whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid veil his soften'd force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things: To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woo lone quiet in her silent walks. The pale-descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till, choked and matted with the dreary shower, The forest-walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk, into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. E'en what remain'd Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around, The desolated prospect thrills the soul.