The ash her purple drops forgivingly 

 And sadly, breaking not the general hush; 



The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea, 

 Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; 



All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze 



Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, 

 Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. 



LOWELL: An Indian Summer Reverie. 



Ah, Sunflower, weary of time, 

 Who countest the steps of the sun; 

 Seeking after that sweet golden clime, 

 Where the traveller's journey is done; 



Where the youth pined away with desire, 

 And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, 

 Arise from their graves, and aspire 

 Where my Sunflower wishes to go ! 



WILLIAM BLAKE: The Sunflower. 



