_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_.