Far Stretched The Landscape, Fair, Without A Flaw, Down To One Silver Sheet, Some Stream Or Cloud, Through Glamorous Mists. Midway, An Engine Ploughed Across The Scene. In Meditative Awe I Stood And Gazed, Absorbed In What I Saw, Till Sweet-Breathed Evening Came, The Pensive-Browed, And Creeping From The City, Spread Her Shroud Over The Sunlit Slopes Of Outremont. Soon The Mild Indian Summer Will Be Past, November'S Mists Soon Flee December'S Snows; The Trees May Perish, And The Winter'S Blast Wreck The Tall Windmills; These Weak Eyes May Close; But Ever Will That Scene Continue Fast Fixed In My Soul, Where Richer Still It Grows.