The storm is over, the land hushes to rest: 
The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone, 
Is fallen back in the west 
To couch with the sinking sun. 
The last clouds fare 
With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly 
In melting drifts of the sky. 
Already the birds in the air 
Appear again ; the rooks return to their haunt, 
And one by one, 
Proclaiming aloud their care, 
Renew their peaceful chant. 
Torn and shattered trees their branches again reset, 
They trim afresh the fair 
Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm, 
And awhile will be handsome yet. 
To-morrow's sun shall caress 
Their remnant of loveliness: 
In quiet days for a time 
Sad Autumn lingering warm 
Shall humour their faded prime. 
But ah ! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground ! 
What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June, 
That curtained the birds' cradles, and screened their song, 
That sheltered the cooing doves at noon, 
Of airy fans the delicate throng, --
Torn and scattered around: 
Far out afield they lie, 
In the watery furrows die, 
In grassy pools of the flood they sink and drown, 
Green-golden, orange, vermilion, golden and brown, 
The high year's flaunting crown 
Shattered and trampled down. 
The day is done: the tired land looks for night: 
She prays to the night to keep 
In peace her nerves of delight: 
While silver mist upstealeth silently, 
And the broad cloud-driving moon in the clear sky 
Lifts o'er the firs her shining shield, 
And in her tranquil light 
Sleep falls on forest and field. 
See! sleep hath fallen: the trees are asleep: 
The night is come. The land is wrapt in sleep.