Thomas Hood the Younger.

The autumn upon us was rushing,
 The Parks were deserted and lone
 The streets were unpeopled and lone;
My foot through the sere leaves was brushing.
 That over the pathway were strown
 By the wind in its wanderings strown.
I sighed for my feelings were gushing
 Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne,
Like lava liquescent lay gushing,
 And rose to the porphyry throne
To the filigree footstool were gushing,
 That stands on the steps of that throne
 On the stolid stone steps of that throne!

I cried —‘Shall the winter-leaves fret us?’
 Oh, turn we must turn to the fruit,
 To the freshness and force of the fruit!
To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us
 Her music that never grows mute
 (That maunders but never grows mute),
The tendrils the vine branches net us,
 The lily, the lettuce, the lute
The esculent, succulent lettuce,
 And the languishing lily, and lute;—
Yes;— the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce;
 Late lily and lingering lute.

Then come let us fly from the city!
 Let us travel in orient isles
 In the purple of orient isles
Oh, bear me yes, bear me in pity
 To climes where a sun ever smiles
 Ever smoothly and speciously smiles!
Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty
 Enhances pyramidal piles:
Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty
 Awakens pyramidal piles
Yes:— his pointless perpetual ditty
 Perplexes pyramidal piles!