John Howard Bryant (1807–1902)

’T IS Autumn, and my steps have led me far

To a wild hill, that overlooks a land

Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star

Sparkles new-set in heaven. O’er its bright sand

The streamlet slides with mellow tones away.

The west is crimson with retiring day;

And the north gleams with its own native light.

Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,

And through green banks the river wanders by,

And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright,—

Bright, but of fading brightness!—soon is past

That dreamlike glory of the painted wood:

And pitiless decay o’ertakes, as fast,

The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.