No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, br The meadows are as stirless as the sky, br Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie br Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. br The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, br Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, br As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, br On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves. br br There is a pathos in his softening glow, br Which like a benediction seems to hover br O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below br And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, br A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow, br While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.