Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

HOW bravely Autumn paints upon the sky

The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

Hues of all flowers that in their ashes lie,

Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,—

Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,—

Like exhalations from the leafy mould.

Look here how honor glorifies the dead,

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!—

Such is the memory of poets old,

Who on Parnassus’ hill have bloomed elate;

Now they are laid under their marbles cold,

And turned to clay, whereof they were create;

But God Apollo hath them all enrolled,

And blazoned on the very clouds of fate!