Autumn

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell     About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o’er field and dell,     Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd,—     I care not who first taught ’em; There’s nothing known to beast or bird     To make a solemn autumn. In solemn times, when grief holds sway     With countenance distressing, You’ll note the…