When Spring first breathes on the russet hill,
In her own faint, lovely fashion,
One's pulses stir with a sudden thrill;
But when Autumn comes the heart stands still.
Moved with a deeper passion.

There's a wonderful charm in the soft, still days
When earth to her rest is returning,
When the hills are drowned in a purple haze,
When the wild grape sweetens, and all in a blaze
Of crimson the maples are turning.

Open thy gates, O heart of mine!
These are the days we have waited,
Put to thy lips the draught divine,
These are the days that hold the wine
Of Summer concentrated.