ABSTRACT
The Sylph of Autumn sad: Though I may not of raptures sing, That grac'd the gentle song of Spring, Like Summer, playful pleasures bring,
Thy youthful heart to glad;
Yet still may I in hope aspire Thy heart to touch with chaster fire,
And purifying love: For I with vision high and holy, And spell of quick'ning melancholy, Thy soul from sublunary folly
First rais'd to worlds above.
