Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.