Page:The Romance of Nature; or, The Flower-Seasons Illustrated.djvu/353

219 The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves,

And most of them had fallen; some remained,

But they were yellow, and the footstalks small

So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch;

But the bright luscious-looking berries hung

In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe,

And tempting e'en to those who know their bale,

Much more to childish lips!—yet those might find

A better treat upon a neighb'ring spray,

That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o'er,

Down from the hedge's top, its garland rough,

Bearing the loved Black-berries—though these now

Were "few and far between," and tasteless, too:

Yet frost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit,

Gives to the leaf strange beauty—tinting it

With every various hue, from healthy green

To sickliest yellow—and from that again

Through every soft and brilliant shade that 'longs

To flaming scarlet—richer crimson—brown,

In all its myriad grades—purple—and that

Dappled again with black. Oh! I have culled

An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed,

And, wondering, looked again upon them all,

Yet ne'er found one whose form of shade or hue

Resembled any other—all unlike;

And then the under surfaces of each

Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind,

And frost, and rain, did never come to them.