Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills The misty twilight atmosphere, In which familiar things appear Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills. The twilight hour a month ago Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, The pearl of all the twenty-four. Erelong the winter gales shall blow, Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze - And oh, that it were June once more!