Henry Theodore Tuckerman (1813–1871)

THE FEW sere leaves that to the branches cling,

Fall not to-day, so light the zephyr’s breath;

O’er Autumn’s sleep now plays the breeze of Spring,

Like love’s warm kiss upon the brow of death:

Serene the firmament, save where a haze

Of dreamy softness floats upon the air,

Or a bright cloud of amber seems to gaze

In wild surprise upon the meadows bare:

Summer revives, and, like a tender strain

Borne on the night-breeze to the wandering ear,

With tender sighs melts Winter’s frosty chain,

And smiles once more upon the dying year:

Thus when we deem Time’s frost has chilled the heart,

At Love’s sweet call its languid pulses start.