There is, I think, no sunshine like the sky
Of those mild, breezy, cloudless autumn days
Which tempt once more abroad the butterfly
To search for lingering flowers; when the green sprays
Of ash, now loosened, drop on him who strays
Through woodland paths, while the light yellow leaves
Of fading trees come dancing down all ways
Like wingéd things; and oft the stream receives
Full many a tiny voyager, whirled along
Amid its eddies;-when the gossamer spreads
Over the fresh clods her trembling silvery threads;
And robin, thinly screened, his sweetest song
Pours forth as if triumphant over the scene,
He said, 'Spring will return, and all again be green.'