TO---
Dear H---, it was you who laid it down
That up to Christmas we've no fogs in town;
And then you asked me, as I well remember,
What can the country offer in November?
To which I answer prospects, ne'er more fair,
Stream, wood and valley, seen through smokeless air;
And moon, where'er she ranges, viewed at will,
Or if chance-hidden, not by house—but hill;
And every star, for love on one to fix;
And deep, rich sunsets, between five and six,
That most convenient hour, just ere we dine,
And no bad prelude to wood fires and wine;
And trees, some stripped and some with lingering hues,
From which, at will, our moral we may choose;
And fifty things beside, that joy impart
To the quick fancy or the thoughtful heart.
E'en now I stood by a clear river's brim,
And saw red leaves like golden fishes swim—