Gone Is The Glory From The Hills, The Autumn Sunshine From The Mere, Which Mourns For The Declining Year In All Her Tributary Rills. A Sense Of Change Obscurely Chills The Misty Twilight Atmosphere, In Which Familiar Things Appear Like Alien Ghosts, Foreboding Ills. The Twilight Hour A Month Ago Was Full Of Pleasant Warmth And Ease, The Pearl Of All The Twenty-Four. Erelong The Winter Gales Shall Blow, Erelong The Winter Frosts Shall Freeze-- And Oh, That It Were June Once More!