Autumn, by Charlotte Smith

The daffodils, the overhanging shades,
That burn with every moving breeze so sweet,
Are but the ghosts of summer’s folded glades,
As whispers fade beneath the moonlight’s feet.

Oh happy buds, to nourish fleeting bliss,
And fragile blooms that nod and sway alike,
To seem to ponder near the scene’s abyss,
A thousand dreams that time can never strike.

• Charlotte Smith