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The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves, 
And most of them had fallen; some remained. 
But they were yellow, and the footstalks small 
So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch; 
But the bright luscious-looking berries hung 
In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe. 
And tempting e’en to those who know their bale, 
Much more to childish lips!—yet those might find 
A better treat upon a neighb’ring spray. 
That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o’er, 
Down fi’om the hedge’s top, its garland rough. 
Bearing the loved Black-berries — : though these now 
Were “few and far between,” and tasteless, too: 
Yet fi’ost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit. 
Gives to the leaf sti’ange beauty—tinting it 
With every various hue, from healthy green 
To sickliest yellow—and from that again 
Through every soft and brilliant shade that ’longs 
To flaming scarlet—richer crimson — brown, 
In all its myriad grades—purple—and that 
Dappled again with black. Oh I I have culled 
An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed. 
And, wondering, looked again upon them all. 
Yet ne’er found one whose form of shade or hue. 
Resembled any other—all unlike; 
And then the mider surfaces of each 
Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind. 
And frost, and rain, did never come to them. 
V F 2 
