From the cyclopean heavens a chill wind does race
It warms the embers of our hearth
And causes Oberon’s silver sentinels
To change their verdant hues, for shades of Midas and Mars
Ready now, they are ready for winter’s freezing blast
And ‘fore the tread of the white king, gilt and gore to cast
Yet, not yet are summer’s days all done
There is still an autumn riot
Of colors in which to run
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