324 2TJ)e eSartJen's Stotj. 



But here the Autumn melancholy dwells 



And sighs her tearful spells 

 Among the sunless shadows of the plain. 



Alone, alone, 



Upon a mossy stone, 



She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, 

 With the last leaves for a love rosary. . . . 



Keats 's ode is less austere. It has more 

 of autumn gold than maroon ; more of pur- 

 ple haze than leaden skies. Thus, the sec- 

 ond stanza: 



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 



Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 



Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 

 Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 



Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : 



And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 



Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 



The alliteration in s is noticeable in each of 

 the two preceding stanzas ; but Hood's felici- 

 tous use of the vowel o throughout the ode 

 imparts to it a solemnity and gloom that ex- 

 press the mournful spirit of November such as 

 has no counterpart in poetry inspired by the 

 latter season. 



