How soon this Autumn did Autumnal winds sidle in the bay
Nor sing nor dance nor merry be they now
They swirl where my love doth lay
As the harvester does put to bed his plough
Now full the tide doth swell in lurid pride
As o’er the lighthouse hangs a listless moon
Full silver patten for the Northern star the wandering seaman to guide ,
And the stealthy chill of August wind hath come so soon.
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