His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!
The Bee.  E. DICKINSON.

                           Still as night
  Or summer’s noontide air.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  II.  MILTON.

Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn. A Christmas Carol.  S.T.  COLERIDGE.

The Summer looks out from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars of July.
A Corymbus for Autumn.  F. THOMPSON.

  Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut
  Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines
  Rather on space than the sky,—­on a tideless expansion of slumber.
Home Pastorals:  August.  B. TAYLOR.

  AUTUMN.

  Then came the Autumne, all in yellow clad,
  As though he joyed in his plenteous store,
  Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad
  That he had banished hunger, which to-fore
  Had by the belly oft him pinched sore;
  Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold
  With ears of corne of every sort, he bore,
  And in his hand a sickle he did holde,
  To reape the ripened fruit the which the earth had yold.
Faerie Queene, Bk.  VII.  E. SPENSER.

  And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay
  Gives it a sweet and wholesome odor.
Richard III. (Altered), Act v.  Sc. 3.  C. CIBBER.

  All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
  Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with nodding corn.
Brigs of Ayr.  R. BURNS.

  Yellow, mellow, ripened days. 
    Sheltered in a golden coating
  O’er the dreamy, listless haze,
    White and dainty cloudlets floating;

* * * * *

  Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
  Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
Autumn Days.  W. CARLETON.

  While Autumn, nodding o’er the yellow plain,
  Comes jovial on.
The Seasons:  Autumn.  J. THOMSON.

          From gold to gray
          Our mild sweet day
  Of Indian summer fades too soon;
          But tenderly
          Above the sea
  Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.
The Eve of Election.  J.G.  WHITTIER.

  The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade,
  Where naked branches make a fitful shade,
  And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie.
October.  G. ARNOLD.

  The dead leaves their rich mosaics
    Of olive and gold and brown
  Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
    Through all the embowered town.
November.  S. LONGFELLOW.

                                When shrieked
  The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,
  And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades
  That met above the merry rivulet
  Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed
  Like old companions in adversity.
A Winter Piece.  W.C.  BRYANT.