THE mellow year is hasting to its close:
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast —
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; —
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows; —
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.
(Hartley Coleridge)
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Based on Topics: Past Poems, Summer Poems, Medicine & Medical PoemsBased on Keywords: ivy-twine