Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 
Thou comest not when Violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or Columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 
Thou waitest late and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare and buds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye, 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 
