To Autumn O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in Thy Chariot of the Sun!

When thou re-strictest the wintry sun,
And welcome’ st in thy soft, sweet day,
But when the clouds are breaking,
The day goes deeper into night.

Thou love’st to sport on mountain ground,
And thy swollen river’s trickling sound
Fills every vale, and blends on high,
In Radiance of the deep blue sky.

All things rejoice in the Home of Sweetness.
Joy is the milk-blossom’s hum.
All sounds press on like waves of light.
The roof of heaven knows man’s plight.

When wilt thou return again,
And fill me with thy genial rain?
To Town’s repose I would retire,
And at thy hearth of Love conspire.

William Blake

• William Blake