Ere, in the northern gale
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that unfold,
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
Ah! ’twere a lot too blessed
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
— William Cullen Bryant.
This image does not belong to Belijose’s Fashion Hauz.