Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway, In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away, When now the moors have doffed the heather bright, Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight, How gladly with the unpermitted bay— Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay— How gladly would I twine thee if I might! The bays are out of reach! But far below The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill, Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow Between September and October chill Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago, And these kind faces that are with me still.
